


The Hunter's Child AU's

by Feynite



Series: Sharkbait [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6718612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various speculative branching offshoots of The Hunter's Child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alternate New Baby (Varric's to Blame)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. These are... AU's of my AU fic, of my fic, primarily concerned with shipping my OC's.
> 
> More to the point, most of what ends up here will be: other potential DA:I characters going back to this AU 'verse as babies, speculative 'what if's?' like 'what if Andruil had acquired Thenvunin?' and suchlike.

When their daughter brings home a baby dirt-walker, Thenvunin is not quite certain what to make of it.

The child is small, and for the most part, looks like any other infant. There is no whirling storm of emotions to him, though. He is tiny and toe-headed, and cries, and looks at things curiously, and grasps one of Thenvunin’s braids and stares at the lace ribbons he has woven through it with his little face scrunched up in contemplation. His limbs are perhaps shorter than most, and he is quite small. But if it were not for the unsettling absence of emotion to him, and his rounded little ears, Thenvunin would never guess the babe was not elvhen.

There is much debate on what is to be done with his daughter’s mysterious find. Thenvunin cannot blame her for scooping the little infant up, out of the wilderness. She was found in such conditions herself, after all, and looking at the child, he is not convinced that _he_  would have been able to just leave him lying about, either. Baby things just have that effect.

There are some suggestions that the infant be kept as a sort of family pet. Thenvunin expects Lavellan to take most to that idea, all things considered, but in the end, she is staunchly against it. The little Child of the Stone clings to her like any other baby would as she whispers to him in lyrical baby-talk, and takes impressive charge of the situation. Thenvunin is left feeling oddly like a storm has just ripped through the palace, sudden and unexpected, as Lavellan convinces Mythal to let her take the child to the nearest known settlement of dirt-walkers, and return him to his own kind.

“But will they even take him? What if they reject him?” Thenvunin wonders. Not fretting, of course. But it is a valid thought. Animals in the wild often reject or even outright kill unfamiliar young, and everything he knows about dirt-walkers tells him that they are little more than animals themselves. 

Uthvir is oddly quiet throughout most of this, giving the infant considering glances, but not offering up much resistance or opinion either way.

“If they are not suitable, then I will bring him back,” Lavellan asserts. She is several hundred years old now, and quite grown up, though Thenvunin finds it difficult to think of her that way. 

“It is a too dangerous,” he insists. “What if they turn violent? At least let me go with you. Or take Uthvir.”

“Papa,” his daughter says, sighing over his anxiousness. “Mythal is sending a small party with me. I will not be alone. And there is planning still to be done for Samala’s wedding, and Uthvir is leaving in a week anyway to take those surveyors to the new network posts. We all have duties we must see to, and I am grown enough to see to mine without my parents needing to be over my shoulder all the time.”

All of that is true.

But Thenvunin thinks of his baby, off in the wilds, with another baby - of a sorts - and every protective instinct he has in him tells him that is unacceptable. Some responsible, high-ranking adult should be in attendance. Even if his daughter is a better combatant, these days, than he is.

It is the principle of the thing.

He makes his protests widely known. Of course, when Lavellan digs her heels in, she can swiftly become the most stubborn person he knows. Uthvir’s influence, most likely. His attempts to dissuade her fall on deaf ears, and the concerns he voices are only solidly refuted, and a few days after she had brought him home with her, his daughter takes her tiny little Child of the Stone, and leaves.

A few days after that, Uthvir sets out, too.

Thenvunin finds himself alone in their chambers, with the crib that had been swiftly commandeered for their unexpected guest, and is still now sitting in a corner of Lavellan’s room. He supposes he should put it back into storage. It was a gift from his own mother, when he had first taken in Lavellan; something to replace the crib which Tarensa had loaned them, in those hectic, early days. He runs a hand over the graceful, curving woodwork. Bars like flowering vines, and bedding so gentle soft it’s like touching a cloud. Pale pink and white.

He remembers the first morning his daughter smiled at him, when he used to have this crib in his own room, and would check on her as soon as he woke. She had been rubbing her little eyes, tiny hands fisted, hair all in disarray. And then she’d looked up at him, and blinked, and smiled to see him there.

His gaze falls back to the empty crib.

Nostalgia, he supposes. He can tend to his fledglings today. Indulge in some time with his birds, before all the hectic preparations for a city celebration overcome him.

He leaves the crib out, though. Lavellan will not be back for some months, so it is not a pressing matter to clear it away.

And he does spend a good deal of his day with his birds. And a good deal of the next day, too. And the one after that. Then he is all taken up by wedding preparations, and that puts a different storm of feelings into him. He and Uthvir never did get around to a more traditional ceremony, come to it. His mother pressed the point for a few years, but in the end it felt… odd. As if it would only be a scrambling attempt to cover up the inadequacy of the first ceremony, and while Thenvunin had not been able to wear starlight, or enjoy an entire city’s worth of celebrations, he cannot bring himself to call it that, in the end.

Still. He is somewhat envious, and even more nostalgic, when it comes to it. Uthvir makes it back in time to join in the festivities, but Lavellan sends her regrets via messenger, and explains that she has found some interesting prospects in the village near to the dwarven settlement, and has received Mythal’s permission to stay there awhile.

Not too strange, in and of itself. But Thenvunin finds he wishes she would come home. The empty crib in her room keeps drawing his eye, making him think of little hands and faces; of that particular smell which babies have, and the feel of a tiny head resting on his shoulder. He wishes his daughter was small again. Which is selfish, he knows. She has accomplished a great deal for herself, even in these tumultuous times, and given him a lot to be proud of.

Even so. He wants to be able to carry her around again. To actually wrestle her into adorable dresses. To watch her figure things out and grow and become more and more assured of herself as the years go by.

And then he thinks, perhaps, that what he wants is not for his daughter to be small again, but for another child to be his. To be theirs. To toddle around after Uthvir, and nap against the hunter’s chest. To play with soft blocks on the floor while Thenvunin selects his outfit for the day. To ride on Lavellan’s shoulders, and learn to see the world with the same unexpected insights she has.

There are… with the recent social upheavals, there have been more allowances for children, to those interested in the matter. Thenvunin frowns at himself, though. With things so hectic it is hardly an ideal environment to be bringing a child into it. And besides which, Uthvir would likely not be interested. Though he supposes he could always petition just for himself. Or find someone who _was_  interested in partnering with him.

But the idea seems a little sour. He does not want to raise a child with just anyone. And he certainly has no objections to his family as it currently stands he. He is not - he would not - he… he would want it to be with Uthvir, he thinks. And not to replace his daughter, certainly not. There is nothing about her that is inadequate or disappointing.

Well, sometimes her lack of sensible dress is disappointing, but only in a very mild and minor way. Thenvunin would not trade her for the world.

It is a silly idea, he decides. A silly, foolish, temporary idea brought on by nostalgia and weddings and strange foundling babies, and his daughter being away, and all these other factors.

It will pass.

 

~

 

It does not pass.

Samala’s wedding is beautiful, of course. Her grooms are exceedingly resplendent, and she herself is lovely enough to prompt the birth of a Spirit of Grace, and the festivities are exemplary. Thenvunin drinks and dances and celebrates as whole heartedly as anyone else. He forgets his own complex feelings towards weddings, once it is all at last underway. There is too much joy and love and beauty around not to.

Still. He threads diamonds into his hair again, and Uthvir looks at him with a certain knowing fondness, and when they dance together his hunter sweeps him away until he is breathless. All sharp smiles and glittering eyes and the pointed tips of claws that press through the softer segments of his outfit. 

By evening he has fallen quite entirely into their arms. When at last they get home, they are barely through the door before Uthvir is tearing his outfit to shreds. They tie him to the wall with the torn ribbons of his scarlet coat, and take him roughly, at first, hot and possessive as they hook his legs over their hips. The strands of fabric pull at a decorate bird sculpture carved into the hallway, but the well-used piece has not yet broken. Thenvunin gasps as his arms strain and his hunter slides in and out of him, his erection caught between them, his breaths ragged. They whisper filthy endearments to him, and draw his blood with pointed spirals of their claws, and bites across his collarbone. And they paint the droplets over his skin in that way that makes his nerves sing, until he is nearly overwhelmed. Until he is calling for them with breathless cries. Until he is coming, stars in his eyes, muscles trembling, seed spilling onto their stomach.

When they untie him, he sags into them.

“My Thenvunin,” they purr, nuzzling his cheek.

He sighs.

“ _Must_  you become so possessive every time I wear red?” he demands, in what is, perhaps, not his most convincingly distraught tone.

“You only wear red when you want me to be possessive,” Uthvir counters, slipping both hands onto his backside and giving it a pointed squeeze.

Their claws dig in a bit.

He yelps, and smacks the side of their arm. But they only chuckle, and draw him into their bedroom, and continue their private celebrations. By morning Thenvunin is sore and sated, a few bite marks still peppering his skin. Uthvir is curled at his back, contented, until they wake up and have to spit out a mouthful of his hair. 

Then they sigh, and flop over, and pull Thenvunin until he is half on top of them instead. They mouth at some of his bite marks, making his skin tingle. But it is a lazy, languid sort of intimacy. After a while he slumps down enough to simply bury his face in the crook of their neck.

“I want another baby,” he says, to the strands of their hair and the soft, golden patch of skin by his nose.

Uthvir stills.

He stills, too, for his own part, shocked at the blunt admission of his own conflicted sentiments.

Or… not truly conflicted, he supposes. But unwise. Hasty. Reactionary.

He is trying so hard to be less foolish about his feelings.

As he is still trying to figure out how he can take back his words, Uthvir reaches out and curls a hand around the back of his head.

“I know,” they say. “Though, if that was your aim then we went about things in _entirely_  the wrong fashion last night.”

That gets him.

He shifts enough to lift his head up, and look at them, and glare.

“How could you possibly have _known_ that?” he demands.

Uthvir lets out a soft huff of amusement.

“I knew it the moment that Child of the Stone followed Lavellan home, my winsome heart. It was written all over you. You have still left that crib in her room, and you have been gazing wistfully at every childhood treasure we keep for her. It was not hard to put it together,” they explain.

He feels a rush of embarrassment, and frowns more thoroughly at them. Though, it is not as if they are wrong. But still.

It is the principle of the thing.

“Well, you do not have to tell me it is a foolish notion,” he says, moving away from them to lay back onto his own pillow. “It is hardly a safe time for such things. And it is likely very inadvisable for us to have one ourselves. My genetics are not… there are some issues in that regard, and you would have to carry it, and you would loathe being vulnerable for nine months, and I would likely go out of my mind worrying over you, and it is not as if there are an abundance of babies appearing out in the woods, which is a good thing but even so we cannot precisely just go hiking and find another…”

Uthvir reaches over, and curls a hand around his cheek, and turns his head towards them.

“Thenvunin,” they say.

He quiets, and swallows.

“I did not put the crib away either,” they point out.

It takes him a moment to process the implications they are leading him towards.

“Oh,” he says, quietly, when he does.

 

~

 

They discuss it.

In point of fact they discuss it more than they discuss most things. Admittedly, it is an important thing, but it might be said that they do not have a good track record with discussing even _most_ important things as much as they ought to. Even nowadays.

But this matter proves to be the exception, as the two of them spend the day going over it. Crashing headlong into some issues they normally skirt carefully around, at times. Thenvunin broaches the subject of his childhood, because if they are going to do this between themselves then that is… something worth warning for.

Uthvir only regards him carefully for a moment, though, and then shrugs.

“If our child looks like you, I will be pleased enough,” they say. 

“I do not think you realize quite how hideous I looked as a child,” Thenvunin says, ruefully.

“Would you not want a baby which was not cute?” Uthvir wonders.

“Of course I would!” Thenvunin snaps, immediately affronted. “What a suggestion! However adorable or not a child is, they are still a _child._  If the infant were to be like me I would love it no less than I loved Lavellan. But I know what to expect, to a degree. And there is the danger, too. I nearly died when I was born.”

Uthvir hesitates. That finally seems to strike a note with them. But after a moment, again, they only shake their head. And then shrug.

“But you did not,” they reason.

And that is true enough, he supposes. And they do not seem at all daunted by the prospect of an unattractive, ungainly child; though, admittedly, they have never put the same stock in appearances as Thenvunin. 

“I am not daunted,” Uthvir decides. “This is not something I had thought I would ever do. But then, there are many things I had not thought I would ever do, that I have done now. With you. So. We both want another child; should that child come to us by another turn of fate or circumstance, well, that is simple. And if not, we have the equipment to make one ourselves. We may as well use it.”

Their expression is deep and contemplative, lost in their own thoughts.

But slowly, Thenvunin’s denial and reluctance is beginning to turn to excitement, even despite his anxieties. Uthvir is not deterred. Nothing in their lives has been simple so far, but perhaps… perhaps…

They discuss it further, still, though. Matters of the current social climate, and Lavellan’s likely reactions (Thenvunin frets that she will feel replaced; Uthvir is certain she will be delighted), and their respective duties, and time, and the likelihood of when and how they might be spared from enough of them to dedicate proper time to child rearing.

In the end it takes a full week of dithering, until at last Uthvir climbs into Thenvunin’s bed one evening, and takes his face in their hands, and looks at him with their eyes gleaming from the starlight pouring through his windows.

“Petition Mythal, you ridiculous thing,” they say, low and fond.

“…Alright,” he agrees.

They respond to his acquiescence by taking him as they would if they intended to get started on reproduction right then and there. But of course, they do not.

It takes six months for that to happen, in fact. Which is a _ludicrously_  short amount of time, even so, but Mythal looks upon him favourably, and finds Uthvir’s atypical childrearing methods praise worthy in their effects on Lavellan, and. Well. Tumultuous times. Even the spirits are reluctant to commit to physical forms these days, and if one is going to increase the population through Waking means, an eye for the future is generally required.

And an early start _can_  be an advantage.

Lavellan is home, visiting away from her little village posting, when Thenvunin is informed that he and Uthvir have permission to manifest a child any time between now and the next three years.

The first thing they do, then, is take their daughter aside.

Lavellan, picking up entirely on the odd and conflicting moods in the air, glances between them. She sits in her chair, just as she used to do when she was a child, and waits for them to explain the matter to her.

“We love you very much, little heart,” Thenvunin starts off with, as Uthvir leans against the wall, of course, and waits to let him establish the trends. “Neither one of us could have ever asked for or expected so wonderful a child. If we never had another, I would still spend all the days of my life grateful that the one we had was you.”

Lavellan blinks.

“…You are having another child,” she surmises, her eyes widening a bit.

Thenvunin glares at Uthvir.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

“I did not tell her,” they say.

“No. But I blame you for that perceptiveness,” Thenvunin counters, folding his arms.

“Did someone find another baby in the woods?” Lavellan immediately wonders, standing up. “Are they here? Can I see them?”

Thenvunin feels a touch of concern.

“No,” he says. “You _are_  aware that most babies do not come from the woods, yes? Not that there is anything wrong with being found in the wilderness! Apart from the obvious. But, with the exception of yourself and your little Child of the Stone friend, most babies come from… other places.”

“I know where babies come from,” Lavellan says.

“It is not the woods,” Uthvir helpfully supplies.

His daughter treats them both to a wry look.

“I am aware. Should I vacate the premises and let you get to it, then?” she asks, and whilst Thenvunin does not appreciate her implying tone, it at least convincingly establishes that she is not operating under any dangerous misapprehensions.

“Of course not. Do not be ridiculous. We would not possibly devote attention to such things while you are still visiting,” Thenvunin says, sniffing. “It has been _months_  since you were home with us. Do not think we will stop cherishing every ounce of your presence, even should we successfully have another child.”

Lavellan’s wry look softens, and she walks over to him, and pulls him in for a hug.

“I know, Papa,” she says. “I love you both very much. And I promise, I will love your baby very much, too.”

“Second baby,” Uthvir says.

Lavellan lets go of him to hug them as well.

“Second baby,” she confirms. 

Something in Thenvunin unclenches at her genuine happiness, though. Lavellan does not fear being replaced. His daughter is confident in their love for her. She will love and know her sibling, and their new baby will love and know her, too, he thinks. And she will love it even if it is like Thenvunin, because she has a good heart.

Before she lets go of Uthvir, he pulls them both into his arms.

 

~

 

True to his word, Thenvunin does not permit procreational activities to begin until after Lavellan has gone again. He feels a pang every time his daughter leaves. But this instance, at least, is mitigated by the knowledge that Uthvir will not be going anywhere for quite some time, and there will be… ample distractions.

When she is gone, they walk together back to their chambers, and then Uthvir is immediately upon him.

It is a strange thing, to know that he is… potent, as they engage in such activities. It seems to strike Uthvir strangely, too, as they are both impassioned even by their usual standards. The first few days are intense, but otherwise not much of a change in routine. Uthvir binds him and rides him, has him in their garden, in his bedroom, in their bedroom. In the parlour. The bathing chamber.

Thenvunin wonders how often they will need to be at it for it to work. He has heard both that once is enough, and that many times is better for likelihood. Reasonably, he supposes, they should be at it as many times as they are able to be, then.

He thinks of this the next morning, when he wakes to find Uthvir curled next to him. The hunter is a tight ball, their arms wrapped around their stomach. Their back towards Thenvunin.

Thenvunin feels a pang at that. Mingled, aching grief, and yet also a quiet love that they have put their back to him. That their unconscious mind trusts him with it.

It is early, barely light. But he slides an arm around them, and coaxes them until they are lying with their back against the mattress, and his own limbs wrapped around them. The hazy web of anxiousness that had been slipping across them in sleep abates somewhat, as they blink their eyes slowly open. They are drowsy.

Thenvunin… rather likes that look on them.

He presses a few kisses to their cheek, and temple. Strokes his hand down their chest, and then slips it carefully up underneath the loose shirt they are wearing.

“Thenvunin,” Uthvir murmurs, and lets out a sigh.

Their voice is low, heavy with sleep, and it makes Thenvunin warm with a rare sort of wanting. He traces his touch across their skin, sketching over the smooth surface until he reaches one of their nipples. And then he rolls it gently between his fingers, and presses a kiss to his hunter’s mouth.

Uthvir stretches, just a bit, and looked at him with a spark of interest.

“Are you groping me?” they say, grinning a little. “Insatiable beast.”

“Oh, please. There is a perfectly reasonably explanation for this. It is not insatiable at all,” he counters, melting into the uncommon softness of them - even if those nails of theirs are scraping pointedly across his hip, now. He swallows their next clever remark with a kiss, and angles himself over them a bit more.

And somehow this gives way to Thenvunin pressing them into the blankets, and working them open with his fingers, and peppering them with kisses and whispered words of affection. Softer than either of them ever go, particularly in abundance. But this morning it _is_  abundant. Thenvunin sinks into them, deliciously warm, and it is pleasant and languid, not fiery or immediate. He goes slow and gentle, tilting his forehead against theirs, and dissuading them whenever they try to pick up the pace. 

In the books, he thinks, this is how it goes, most times. The bonded lovers take their time. They do not race towards ecstasy. They indulge in courteous consideration.

Though that description is inapt, he thinks. This is not courtesy. This is the warm, wet slide of Uthvir’s flesh around him, and the indulgence of their lips parting beneath his, and the luxury of their skin against his own. He pulls off their shirt, and when they make no objections, he leans fully into them.

“Fuck,” Uthvir hisses, their hips jerking upwards, voice cracked and strained. They are just as sensitive as he is, when it comes to it. Maybe even more. But the sound of them nearly does him in, and he forces himself to pause. Lying on top of them. Inside of them. Their legs spread around him, as he kisses their forehead, and their nails trail down his shoulder blades in reproach.

“I love you,” he tells them, as he starts moving again. A few low, steady thrusts, testing his limits, and then to his surprise their grip on him tightens, and their eyes close. Their jaw tips back and they _keen_  as they come, clenching around him.

He does not outlast them by a wide margin.

When the stars have cleared from his gaze, and he is spent within them, then, he hears them chuckle.

“Good morning, husband,” they say.

“Good morning, love of mine,” he returns.

And so it goes for the next month. Uthvir takes him, for the most part, as ever. But sometimes he takes them, too, in quiet mornings and evenings and nights when they both wake in the dark, and they are too close, too comfortable, for pretences or an excess of insecurity. Thenvunin’s approach is simple, he knows. He goes slow, and careful, and lets his affection suffuse the atmosphere, with sweet kisses and soft touches.

And then one evening Uthvir makes a sound as he brushes their cheek. A breath that is broken in the wrong way. He is inside of them, lying close and calling them beloved, and their eyes are glittering.

Glittering too much.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, suddenly alarmed. What did he do? He has hardly moved for the past several moments, and they seem fine before. He blinks, and tries to move back, and instead finds himself flipped over and pinned down. Uthvir all but drapes themselves on top of him, holding firm and fast, their face pressed to his neck.

“I love you so,” they say. “I really do.”

His heart clenches.

“I love you, too,” he assures them.

They press their lips to him, and sigh.

“It worked,” they tell him.

He blinks, and takes a moment to figure out what they are referring to.

“How would you know so soon? And I did not even…”

Realization dawns.

They are not talking about this _latest_  interlude being a success.

“How long have you known?” he wonders.

Uthvir lets out a breath.

“It took the first day,” they admit. “The healers extend their compliments to your virility.”

“But it has been weeks! Why did you not tell me?” he wonders, even as his arms tighten around them. They are… this is… he swallows and runs a hand down their side, as close as he can get to the abdomen currently pressed against him.

“Because, I have been enjoying it,” they admit. “All this sex, without even the need to manufacture excuses or opportunities.”

There is a pointed, casual lasciviousness to their tone. And it is familiar enough that he almost takes the bait. Sighing and rolling his eyes, and readying his list of reasons why delaying in telling him for the sake of their increased sex life was absurd and unduly discourteous of them.

But something catches his tongue. Some stray instinct, gathered from the air around them. From the atmosphere between them. He has never… done this with them before, really. Instigated such affectionate interludes, with such frequency and persistence. He has been basking them in tenderness, he realizes, and Uthvir has not been tenderly treated much.

They do not usually invite it.

_I have been enjoying it,_  they say. But really, it is not precisely difficult to get sex out of Thenvunin unless he is in the midst of his duties, most of the time. 

“Do you think I will stop touching you like this because you are pregnant now?” he wonders, quietly.

Uthvir stills.

_Oh._

Slowly, he brushes his hands down their sides. He tilts his face towards them, and leans into them. Presses a kiss to their hair.

“Do you think I will stop touching you like this after the baby is born?” he wonders, additionally.

He can feel them frown against his skin.

“There would be little need for you to continue stretching beyond your comfort,” they say.

“I am hardly uncomfortable,” he replies; surprised at how true it is.

But that is the point, he thinks. _Because_  he is comfortable, it does not matter so much, that he might not be adept at these things. That he is simple at it, when he is taking them instead of the other way around. That his compliments are only the most basic, besotted of endearments, unimaginative when held against his insults or complaints.

Because they are true.

Because they make Uthvir shiver.

Because his hunters eyes are too wet, and their arms are tight around him, and they are still learning how to love one another properly.

“Why on earth would I stop having perfectly respectable sex with you now that I have figured out how to?” Thenvunin asks.

There is a pause.

Uthvir snorts.

“There is a _respectable_  type of sex?” they ask, lifting their head and looking at him with eyes that are gleaming in a much better way, now.

“Of course there is!” he insists.

“If I had known that, I would have attempted it from the outset. If only to ease your wounded sense of decorum,” Uthvir replies.

“It would not have worked then. You can only have respectable sex when both parties respect one another, and observe proper bedroom roles,” he dryly informs them, wriggling just a little in their grip, until they obligingly loosen it. Then he promptly flips them back over, getting his hunter onto their back again with a soft grunt. 

“Proper bedroom roles?” Uthvir asks him.

“Absolutely,” he confirms. “As I outrank you, and am far more reputable, it is only expected that I should take the offensive role, so to speak.”

“There is an offensive role in respectable sex?” Uthvir notes, raising an eyebrow. “And the most respectable person must take it?” They sound a bit sharp, but then, they are still displeased with their current rank among Mythal’s people.

Thenvunin clears his throat.

“Yes. Well,” he says. “That may have been a poor word choice. It is the… commanding role. But since both parties are respected and respectable, and in our case, exceptionally so, there is a great deal of courtesy involved. Naturally.”

Uthvir is quiet for a moment. Their expression open, but still assessing.

“Did you just call me exceptionally respectful? And respectable?” they ask.

Thenvunin reviews his recent word choices _again_.

“The second one is true,” he confirms. “The first was, perhaps, inaccurate.”

His hunter snorts at him. Then they smirk a bit, and lean up, nipping playfully at his lips.

“Since when am I respectable?” they wonder.

“Since my standards were dramatically redefined,” Thenvunin admits, wryly. 

Uthvir’s smirk turns into a smile. Slow and small. They wrap their arms around him, and tilt their legs apart; let him slide between their thighs, until he accepts the invitation for what it is, and presses his way back into them. He guides himself in with his hand, and then draws it up their abdomen. Rests his palm, flat, against the warm skin of their stomach.

“You are such a radiant, bewildering spirit,” Uthvir tells him.

He swallows, and pulls them close again. Rocking his hips into them, until their breath hitches.

“You are my heart,” he replies.


	2. ANB - Congratulations

The healer stares at the spiked, scowling, sharp-featured figure in their hall, and they fold their arms and raise an eyebrow.

“Well. Quickly, now, I do have quite a few activities to get back to today. Particularly in the event of a negative result,” they drawl.

It will probably be negative, she tells herself. Although whoever that letting someone like _this_  have a baby was a good idea, she doesn’t know. Some of the senior healers insist that they’re better than they seem, but given that they _seem_  like they might think ripping her throat out with their teeth would be a fun afternoon, she is uncertain on how much of an improvement that makes.

Swallowing down her unease, she casts the entirely incongruous spells required, and summons up a Spirit of Growth from the far edges of the palace. When all is said and done, the results come back

Positive.

She double-checks, even though the elf in front of her looks increasingly impatient

Positive, again.

After a moment, she swallows, and looks them in the eye. She is going to have to tell _this person_  that they are _pregnant._

 _“_ Congratulations,” she says. “My… my compliments on your exceptional fertility.”

…That was, in hindsight, possibly not the best way to go about her task.

The terrifying elf pauses, and then blinks. They narrow their eyes at her a moment, before turning their gaze down towards themselves. Most specifically, to the general vicinity of their stomach.

“It tends to take some months to show,” she informs them.

“I know that!” they snap.

Then they glare at her, almost warily for a moment, before nodding their head. Without further ado, they turn on their heel and storm out of the chambers, and if she had not just given them the announcement she _had,_  she would suppose they were on their way to kill someone.

Perhaps they are anyway, she thinks.

And then she realizes that this means this elf is going to be a frequent occupant of their halls, and she feels a sudden need to sit down.

“Hooray!” cheers the Spirit of Growth.

“Oh, go back to the garden,” she tells it.


	3. ANB - Pregnant Uthvir

Thenvunin expects a pregnant Uthvir to be utterly insufferable.

This is not an expectation that is disappointed.

He reads books upon books on pregnancy, in those early weeks after the confirmation that they have achieved the first step in their latest parenting endeavour. He speaks with Mythal, who has been pregnant before and invites him into conversation on the topic, and with Nurevas, who has also carried a child, and he writes extensively to his mother.

Increasingly, Thenvunin attempts to translate the symptoms described into how he supposes Uthvir might react to them. The books warn of increased libido – which hardly seems possible – and aches and pains, and the carefulness of using healing magic on pregnant elves, and the importance of soothing ambiance and a lack of stress. But he thinks, perhaps, that if he were to situate Uthvir in the garden next to some fountains and play for them on his harp, they would become irate from sheer boredom.

He imagines he will have to talk them out of embarking upon hunts and vanishing into the city, and all manner of things.

And for the first few months, this is more or less how it goes. Uthvir is not incautious, but they only permit so much of his ‘fussing’ and ‘draconian safety precautions’ to break through their usual routine of activity. No one save the healers knows for certain that they have succeeded, and no one outside of Mythal’s palace and Thenvunin’s kin is aware that they have been trying. And even then, Thenvunin has not yet bothered to inform his father and his father’s family.

The healers say everything seems normal so far, but if the child… if…

…Thenvunin would prefer not to invite his father into their life, even if he would probably decline. Lavellan had never been overly concerned with her grandfather’s disinterest in her, but then, she had never had reason to suppose it was because of some essential failing on her part. It might be different for their second baby.

The point being, though, that no one in the city is aware of Uthvir’s condition, and they are happy to keep it that way. They alleviate their boredom by tending some stray matters and duties for Mythal in Arlathan, and Thenvunin, who has been relieved of his own duties for the next several years, follows after them and makes certain that they are not accosted by brigands or ambushed by feral dragons or stabbed by old rivals looking for revenge.

Uthvir tolerates this, amused, until they decide they are tired of it, and then there are usually arguments and sharp words and frustration, until Thenvunin recalls that stress is bad and wonders if his own stress might not sour the air around Uthvir and immediately backs down.

Which seems to irritate Uthvir even more.

But on the whole, it is not so different, at the beginning.  Thenvunin’s protective impulses fold over themselves and magnify, and he finds his mind turning over all manner of frightful possibility. Some more plausible than others. He fusses over Uthvir’s food and their health and their comfort, and he cannot seem to keep from asking if they are aching or hungry or thirsty, or tired or bored or tense, until they usually take him aside and pin him down somewhere and…

Well.

Thenvunin hopes it alleviates the potential boredom – and likelihood of Uthvir wandering off and getting into fights with people who use the wrong sort of magic and nearly kill them – at least.

And then Uthvir begins to show.

The healers assure them that everything is normal, as his hunter’s form changes of its own accord to accommodate the new occupant in it. Uthvir takes to sleeping even less than they usually do, tossing and turning and not quite settling as Thenvunin worries, until finally they just shove the bed in their room up against the far corner of their room. They start sleeping with their back to the wall and a closed canopy stretched over their head, and Thenvunin to their front, with the growing swell of their stomach always covered by several blankets and pillows. Thenvunin’s own temptation is to hold them and sleep facing them, but they become prickly and uncomfortable over touch, and seem to do better when he puts his back to them. Lying on his side, like a living barricade between them and the rest of the world.

Sometimes the atmosphere around them is so undefinably wary that he is almost tempted to go and get his sword, and have that at hand, too.

Uthvir’s armour stops fitting them as well, and when it does, all of their attempts to venture out immediately reverse in on themselves. They do not say it, but they become so discomfited by even stepping foot into the rest of the palace that Thenvunin arranges to have the healers come to them for their check-ins, and brings Uthvir their meals, and acquires several more comfortable lounging chairs and pillows for his garden.

That is around when Lavellan comes home, intent upon staying with them until the new baby is born.

Thenvunin is relieved.

And not just because his heightened protective instincts had been worrying over her, too, out there all alone, in the remote reaches at the edge of civilization, with only questionable villagers for company. But because she is good for Uthvir, too. The both of them have a rapport that is much easier, much less fraught or liable to break into accusations or arguments.

Lavellan brings strange, soft toys and geometrically patterned blankets and cushions and a strange little mobile with multi-coloured bats dangling from it, when she comes. She puts up with Uthvir’s mood – which improves at her arrival, but then slips back into its present state of ‘uniformly terrible’ – and makes her nanae do things with her. Not hunter-y things, in fact. She has them paint and bead and sculpt, brings in tools and distractions, and Thenvunin nearly faints in relief as some of Uthvir’s frustration eases and he can trust them with someone else long enough to fall onto one of the couches in his room and take a nap.

And then one evening Uthvir is having troubles sleeping, and their hands keep drifting over their stomach, and they move from their bed to Thenvunin’s to one of the couches in Lavellan’s room, unsettled and riddled with some ill-defined anxiety that has them pacing, scowling, and snapping until the moon is high and both Thenvunin is at an utter loss.

“What can I do?” he asks Uthvir.

“Nothing,” they snap, pacing about their chamber, which has fallen into an increased state of disarray as they have rearranged furniture and strewn things about in the whirlwind of their unhappiness.

“What is the matter?” he tries.

 _“Nothing!”_ Uthvir hisses at him, throwing a glare his way. “There is nothing to be done. It is all happening, just as it should, and it will be _fine_ , and I will be fine, and the baby will be fine, so why do you not just go and be somewhere else for five minutes of my life? Can I no longer simply spend a night awake? It is not as if the baby cannot sleep, it can do whatever it pleases in there.”

“It is better if you sleep,” Thenvunin reminds them, not even rising to their tone. Their hackles have been up since the afternoon, and not even convincingly so, he has found. The rippling of their aura and the furrow of their brow betrays more discomfort than anger.

“Oh, thank you, I did not realize that, despite the hundreds of times you have seen fit to mention as much this evening,” Uthvir snaps. They are clad in layers upon layers, thick fabrics from their neck to their toes, withdrawn and miserable, and seemingly without particular cause or particular recourse to it.

“Perhaps a more positive outlook would help,” Thenvunin suggests.

Uthvir glares.

“Get out,” they demand. “Just get out and leave me alone. It is crowded enough inside my own body now as it is.”

Thenvunin is familiar enough with their tones that he knows he probably cannot win any counter-argument. Even so, as he leaves the room with a certain storminess to his own steps, he feels a lurch of unease. Which is ridiculous, because Uthvir will be fine enough alone in their room for a little while, but even so. Even so, what if they trip? And fall? And injure themselves? And hit their head and fall unconscious so that they cannot call for help? Fluke accidents happen all of the time.

Thenvunin lingers in the hall outside of their room.

After a few minutes he settles against the wall, and folds his arms. Listening to the sound of Uthvir pacing, and moving things on their desk. A few loud _thuds_ almost have him racing back in, until he identifies the sounds as that of the desk chair being moved, and sat in. And then stood up from and moved back again.

After an hour or so, the day is beginning to catch up with him. His legs are tired. They fold beneath him, slowly, until  he gives in and simply slides to the hall floor. Tilting his head back against the wall and listening to make certain that no demons suddenly come flying from the Fade to accost Uthvir.

That is how his daughter finds him.

He moves to stand, when he realizes she has come into the hall. But she stops him, striding forward and getting a hand on his shoulder. He finds he does not have the energy to protest much. Nor to feel particularly concerned, come to it, at being found by his daughter in such a questionable position.

Lavellan smiles at him, and then knocks on the door, and slips into her nanae’s room.

She speaks to Uthvir – quiet tones that he cannot entirely parse into proper words – and emerges again a few minutes later. Then she takes a moment to look at him, before sighing and sliding down onto the floor next to him.

“They are alright,” she says.

“They are miserable,” he refutes. This was selfish of him, he thinks. Selfish to let it be just the two of them. They could have involved any number of other elves. Elves with safer genetics, with better predispositions towards pregnancy. Perfectly respectable, trustworthy individuals who would make fine parents themselves, and help, and ensure that Uthvir did not have to go through this.

Lavellan snakes one of her arms through his, and leans against his shoulder. He leans back, and closes a hand over top of the one she settles into his elbow.

“Just give them some space,” she says. “Let them come to us when they want us.”

Thenvunin nods in acceptance, because that is reasonable, of course. And if the two of them nevertheless seem to view camping out in the hall outside Uthvir’s door as sufficient distance, well. He is beginning to notice that all of them have amply developed protective instincts, in their own individual ways.

They lapse into silence, as another hour slips by. Thenvunin’s eyelids begin to droop, and Lavellan’s breaths even out at his shoulder.

He blinks back to full consciousness when he feels fingertips brush a strand of his hair away from his cheek.

Uthvir is standing over them. Some of the anxious mess of their aura has given way to a more generalized sort of exhaustion. Their gaze sweeps over him, and over Lavellan, who is sleeping off the tiredness of a day full of entertaining their whims and manufacturing distractions for them, and after a moment they sigh, and then nod back towards their room.

Thenvunin picks up their daughter, and without really considering it, carries her in with him. He settles her onto Uthvir’s bed, pulling off her belt and her gloves – hard buckles, not a good idea for sleeping – and tucking her in, before climbing on top of the covers himself. Uthvir grabs a large blanket off of the foot of the bed, and settles into their corner.

They never once slept all together, Thenvunin realizes. Not even when Lavellan was very small. But something in Uthvir seems to settle, just a bit, and they do not quite bury themselves in as many blankets as usual. They curl straight up to Thenvunin’s back, and for the first time Thenvunin realizes that from their angle up high against the pillows, they have a clear line of sight to the door, and the room’s only window.

Lavellan rolls over and wakes up a bit, but only enough to mumble something and pat Thenvunin’s hand. Gradually, Uthvir’s breathing eases at his back. Their stomach is pressed securely up against him, and he is just drifting off when he feels it.

A tiny little trill of contentment.

Not his own, and not Uthvir’s, he doesn’t think.

He closes his eyes, and lets as much warmth and affection as he can muster suffuse the air around him. Floods it over Uthvir and Lavellan and that soft swell resting between them, until he finally drifts off to sleep himself; lost to the swaying sound of quiet breaths, and the secure feeling that they are all safe and sound and close at hand.

He wakes, in the early morning, as the mattress sways a bit. Blinking his eyes open reveals his daughter slipping out of the bed. He lifts his head a little bit, but she shakes hers, and nods towards Uthvir; and though he cannot see his hunter without turning, he can hear, very faintly, the sound of soft snores against him.

“I will go and get breakfast,” Lavellan tells him softly. She looks well-rested, at least, and Thenvunin is warm and comfortable and freed enough from last night’s bouts of insecure paranoia that he only nods.

He suspects she will not hurry about it, though. And he does not hurry to wake Uthvir either, relishing the steady sounds of them sleeping, deeply, until the light in the room has grown and grown. He dozes until he finally feels a shifting at his back. Uthvir’s grip on him tightens, for a moment. One of their hands snakes under his shirt, and one of their legs tangles through his.

Thenvunin is _very_ glad that their daughter is not still there, then, as his body responds to the feeling of their thigh sliding up against certain parts of him.

But things do not progress far beyond comfortable touches.

Though Uthvir does make it a point to nip at his ear, and whisper some filthy suggestions into it.

“Later tonight I am going to fuck you,” they decide. “I miss having you on my cock. So I am going to strap on that gift Desire sent, and take you until we are both too exhausted to be terrible at handling this.”

Certain parts of Thenvunin _definitely_ take an interest in that, even as he clears his throat, and he feels Uthvir grin against him.

“If it will help you sleep,” he allows, which makes them snort at him.

But as it happens, Thenvunin’s mother finally arrives that day; and there is enough to be dealt with, in light of that, that neither of them needs any help being exhausted that evening. Uthvir is less inclined to endure his mother’s scrutiny and questioning and scolding than usual, and his mother frets over there being too much stress in the air, and interrogates the healers about the baby’s development, and all in all makes everything into a well-meant mess.

And she fights with Lavellan, of all possible targets.

“Social atmospheres are important for an infant’s development. You either need to spend more time out and about in the palace, or bring more people here to visit,” Thenvunin’s mother asserts.

“Stress is worse for development. Let them be, Grandmother, they do not want a bunch of people poking at them,” Lavellan counters, wedging herself in front of her nanae and folding her arms.

“This is hardly a stress-free atmosphere to begin with,” his mother argues, digging in her own heels. “They have gotten themselves all worked up over every little thing that might go wrong, and now they are hiding. If they just get out a bit, they will see that the world is not full of dangers, and no one means them any harm.”

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

Lavellan looks equally unconvinced of this notion.

“The world _is_ full of dangers,” she asserts. “And if they want to head out, they can decide that for themselves. They know where all the doors are and that any of us will go with them.”

“Sometimes people need a bit of a shove, little heart,” his mother replies.

Thenvunin’s mind decides to translate that metaphor into a vivid mental image of his mother shoving Uthvir, and he feels a bolt of reflexive alarm, and that manages to get everyone’s attention before he can reason it away. Or fail to express it.

Uthvir sighs, and pats his arm.

“Alright,” they say. “We shall all go to the dining hall for lunch.”

“We do not have to,” Thenvunin says, but one look at their face and he can tell that they have decided. His mother has, by implication, branded them paranoid and cowardly. Uthvir barely trusts himself and Lavellan with their select few weaknesses. They will not suffer to have others thinking them fearful or vulnerable, even in the midst of pregnancy, it seems.

In a rare turn of events, though, it takes Uthvir longer to dress for the occasion than anyone else. Thenvunin finds them in their room, glaring at articles of clothing and pieces of armour. Most pregnancy clothing, Thenvunin knows, is billowy and soft and fluttery, gentle so as not to chafe or overheat the skin. But though Uthvir’s armour cannot accommodate them any longer, they make up the difference with thick leather vests and dark layers, and their gauntlets and heavy boots. They leave their upper arms bare, as if to invite attention towards that exposed, golden skin, and away from their new curvature.

“One of the hunters was pregnant, while I served Andruil,” they say, scowling at their gauntlet. “Touching her was quite a popular pastime. For some reason, everyone from the servants to Andruil herself was quite taken with putting hands on her swelling stomach. Whether or not she seemed to invite the attention.”

Thenvunin considers this.

He steps out for a moment, and goes and retrieves his sword from the weapons’ case. And then he heads back to Uthvir’s chambers.

“If anyone puts an unwelcome hand on you, I will challenge them to a duel,” he announces.

“I was thinking I might just cut off the offending limb,” Uthvir admits, gesturing to a knife strapped to their belt.

“That would cause more trouble,” Thenvunin says, back straightening. “If they are low-ranking and persistent enough, I will cut off their hand for you. And if they are of my own rank, I shall challenge them, officially, and make a demonstration of it to everyone else. Only Mythal could override me in such matters, and so I must admit that she might touch you. But she would be courteous, if she did.”

Uthvir contemplates this for a moment, and then lets out a breath.

“I suppose, under the circumstances, I should endeavour not to get myself thrown out of favour,” they allow.

It has been very hard for them to gain much favour at all with Mythal, Thenvunin has noticed. Not that his lady dislikes his heart, per se, but she is not overly impressed with their typical modes and methods.

“I will protect you,” Thenvunin promises.

Uthvir’s expression wavers, a bit, caught between what he suspects is a flippant response, and something a little more meaningful.

“So will I,” a familiar voice interjects from the door, and they both look over to see Lavellan leaning by the frame; equipped with her own sword and shield, lightly armed as if anticipating a practice sessions, or journey, or skirmish in the near future. Thenvunin’s mother passes by in the hallway, and blinks at them, and then sighs.

“How did I ever end up with _warriors_ of all things?” she wonders. “Look at you all. We are going to _lunch,_ my goodness. And I am going to have to coordinate now.”

“I can loan you a dagger,” Lavellan offers.

“Thank you, little one, that should be sufficient,” his mother replies, and the two of them saunter off to go and see her properly armed.

There is a brief, awkward silence.

“My mother will probably also stab anyone who upsets you,” he offers. “Whatever she says, she won several wrestling tournaments before I was born, and she did some fair time as a soldier herself.”

Uthvir blinks.

“What happened?” they wonder.

Thenvunin lifts his chin, and shrugs.

“She likes designing things more,” he explains, simply. Then he bows, and holds out his arm. Uthvir hesitates a moment, before letting out a tremendous sigh, and taking it. They make their way into the hall.

“You know, among hunters, at least I could tell myself that I would be able to regain my reputation by gouging someone’s eyes out,” Uthvir says, muttering a bit. “What am I supposed to do with you garden flowers?”

“You are a garden flower now, too,” Thenvunin reminds them.

Uthvir raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, of course,” they say. “A simple, lovely, innocuous red rose. That would be me.”

“All covered in thorn,” he decides, and with a quick glance to confirm that his mother and daughter are still debating weaponry, he leans in and presses a kiss to their temple.

“Lucky me, you like to bleed,” Uthvir says, catching his chin and pulling him in for a proper kiss.

They get caught, which is not ideal. Though his mother only seems amused, and Lavellan scarcely notes it. He is beginning to worry over how many times she has seen them at something without either of them realizing it, given how little she seems to remark upon their interactions. But he decides he has enough to worry about, at the moment, and the proves especially true when they venture out of their chambers.

Uthvir is tense, though not too badly off when they find that the corridor is predominantly empty. Thenvunin keeps them close, and Lavellan walks at their back, and his mother frames off their other side as she talks about a friend of hers who went through the remarkable experience of having twins.

“Lavellan, why are you dithering back there?” his mother asks, at one point.

“I am making certain we are not ambushed by unfriendly forces from behind,” Lavellan replies.

“That is not necessary,” Uthvir wryly asserts.

“Good girl,” Thenvunin counters. “One never knows, after all.”

His mother just rolls her eyes at them.

“Whatever helps,” she decides.

Things get a bit harder once they get into the dining hall, and a greater degree of foot traffic. True to Uthvir’s prediction, nearly everyone they pass seems fascinated by their condition. Thenvunin had never really appreciated before how little people _looked_ at Uthvir. Oh, they stared at them, to be sure. Assessed them, even. But the rigid spikes of their form and the surety of their body language made a quick enough impression that there was not much point in lingering assessments.

But with the nature of their condition, suddenly every eye they pass, it seems, is fascinated by each and every nuance of its visible effect on Uthvir. Thenvunin finds him bristling in outrage at their presumptuousness. Uthvir did not become pregnant to serve their curiosity about pregnant elves, they became pregnant to have a child. It is a means to an end, and he thinks proper courtesy would imply that everyone would politely overlook the changes in their form, given that they are involuntary and clearly quite covered and in no way inviting inspection of themselves.

Some elves are probably even having untoward thoughts. Uthvir is very attractive, after all, and obviously more vulnerable, and there has been a certain… uniform softening to their form, as their stomach has grown, which makes them look not quite so sharp and deadly dangerous, and more small and pretty and approachable.

Thenvunin catches Elandaris staring at Uthvir’s stomach, and rests a hand on the hilt of his blade, radiating disapproval.

Elandaris swiftly averts his gaze.

By chance, though, no one is discourteous enough to actually attempt to touch Uthvir. It is not terribly surprising that Mythals’ people are more well-mannered, in general, than Andruil’s had been; though perhaps a small amount of their hesitance might be attributed to the well-armed contingent of glowering family members bristling at any perceived threat or imposition.

And once they settle down to eat, Uthvir actually begins to relax again. His mother guides them to one of the tables by the far wall, so their backs or towards it, and Uthvir is framed by himself and Lavellan, as she takes the seat across from them. Lavellan darts off after a moment and returns with Pride; which Thenvunin disapproves of, even _if_ Pride quietly settles down on the bench beside his mother, and seems to make a point of striking up conversations with anyone who starts asking too many impertinent questions of Uthvir.

Though he supposes that is… inadvertently helpful of him.

Halfway through the meal, Uthvir is even beginning to look slightly amused. But it is not until they make it back to their chambers, safe and sound and having satisfied his mother’s worries over her second grandchild’s development, that Thenvunin finds out why.

“I thought I was going out without armour,” Uthvir says, after Lavellan and his mother withdraw to go and visit the library. And possibly talk with Pride, he suspects. He attempts to psychically dissuade his daughter from any notions she might have of thanking him for sitting with them at lunch. Just because it was useful _one time_ does not mean it should be made a habit. Or encouraged.

“You did. Apart from the gauntlets. And boots, I should say,” Thenvunin replies, angling a wry look towards the articles in question.

Uthvir chuckles.

“It seems, sometimes… people can be armour too. When they are the right people,” they say.

They smile, just a bit. Gaze firm on Thenvunin, until he feels his throat start to go thick, and finds he has to clear it.

What a ridiculous sentiment.

He pulls them close, and tries not to cry.


	4. ANB - Perspective

There is a part of Lavellan that wishes she could explain to Uthvir that really, this isn’t anywhere _near_  as bad as it could be.

It’s not one of her nobler impulses, she knows, and it’s not as if Uthvir doesn’t have fair reasons to be uncomfortable with their condition. But sometimes she has to stop, and look around, and marvel that the odds of her nanae dying from pregnancy are very, very low. Low enough that while everyone is concerned over their health and safety and well-being, and the baby’s health and safety and well-being, most of the source of their worries are external. Or directed towards the notion of losing the pregnancy, rather than losing Uthvir to it.

She knew three people in her clan, way back when, who died giving birth. And when she had gone to the dwarves, to find a suitable place for Varric, she had met pregnant dwarves. The opulence of the Deep Roads in these days was a far cry from the darkspawn-riddled tunnels, packed with ruins and fetid things, that she recalled. But even though the dwarves were quite well-off, all things considered, they were still mortal. Their medicine wasn’t perfect, and the air of expectation to the dwarves who were carrying children was tempered by the understanding that it was, indeed, a dangerous business.

Uthvir is not going to die from pregnancy. They are not going to have to spend long days walking and walking, with their belly heavy and their muscles burning, because there is no other choice. Because it gives them a better chance at living than staying put, and risking the tender mercies of encroaching humans. They are not going to feel their stomach twist one night, and wake with blood everywhere, and their baby turned all the wrong way, and then die from blood loss as a frantic keeper tries to save them. 

Lavellan is profoundly glad for this. And it is one of the things that makes her understand why Solas chose to do what he did. But even so, part of her wants to tell Uthvir that in another time, another life…

But that’s petty, she knows. That’s her thinking that their irritableness and biting and snarling is born from a lack of perspective, and she knows it isn’t. She knows they’re afraid because they have good reasons to be. Because aches and pains are still aches and pains. Because their body has been treated like someone else’s property before, and now it’s playing host to another person. And even if that person is Uthvir’s own child, she thinks, it’s hard for them. Because, like all expectant parents, even experienced ones, they’re afraid that they’re going to do something wrong and irrevocably ruin their child’s life, right from the outset.

She doesn’t tell them that it could be much worse, in the end, because even if she could explain it, they really do know that. Maybe not in the same ways, but it’s still part of what they’re afraid of. She sees it in the hand on their stomach. In the way they jump and tense whenever someone unexpectedly opens the wrong door. They’re half terrified that someone is going to swoop in and tell them that this is all a mistake. That they’re not allowed to have family and happiness and safety, and that Uthvir themselves won’t be strong enough to defend these things when they do, and they’ll lose them all instead.

Lavellan doesn’t know if she’ll ever be strong enough to do what they’re doing. She thinks she’d be just as terrified, in their place. If she and Pride ever… she doesn’t know that she’d ever stop worrying, while she was vulnerable and unsteady and less capable than she could be.

 _I killed Andruil,_  she wants to tell them, then, instead. And she thinks she might, if the garden walls weren’t so likely to have ears. _I killed Andruil, and Falon’Din, and if anyone tries to hurt you or Papa or your baby, I’ll kill them, too. I won’t even flinch._

Uthvir sits with her in the garden, making dry commentary about the riveting qualities of the plants, and Thenvunin’s plans to put in rose vines, and a new fountain, and their musings on how very _fascinating_ that all is. She sits with them until they start to shift uncomfortably, and then she settles back and grabs a cushion, and gets them to lie down with their head in her lap.

Not a concession they would grant many others. But they’re alone in the garden, and only Thenvunin is in the chambers, with her grandmother off socializing with some of Mythal’s attendants, and Desire in the city, and Pride at his duties. She brushes a hand through their hair and rubs at their scalp until their talking trails off, and their eyelids start to droop.

“This is insufferable,” Uthvir informs her.

“You sound like Papa,” she tells them, amused.

They let out a long breath.

“I know. It is maddening. I keep thinking my reputation will never recover, and that is not precisely un-Thenvunin-like of me. I blame my little guest. It takes after him, no doubt, and has seized at least partial control of my faculties.”

She grins down at them.

“You think the baby will be like Thenvunin?” she wonders.

They let out another breath.

“I hope so,” they admit.

She feels a pang, at that. After a quiet moment, she lets her fingers run through their hair again. And then she bends down and brushes a kiss to their forehead, light and fond.

“I will be happy no matter who it takes after,” she asserts. “A little Uthvir would not go amiss, either. Just imagine. I get to be the merciful older sister who rescues them from the clutches of Thenvunin’s ruffled outfits and lets them run around in tiny spikes, hunting butterflies.”

Uthvir chuckles, and something in them eases just a bit further.

“Even so. I shall keep my vote the same,” they declare. “We ought not gang up on poor Thenvunin with _too_  many hunters.”

“He would survive it, I imagine. He rather likes being the most civilized one.”

“True,” her nanae concedes.

But they are drifting off, then. A light dozing that she encourages with soothing touches, until their eyes are closed and their breathing evens out. She watches them for a moment, and thinks of the first time they napped with her. Soft and far gentler than usual in sleep. The thought makes her throat go thick, and heavy, and she supposes it is just one of those things, as a few tears prickle in the corners of her eyes. She’s glad, really. She’s so glad this isn’t as terrible as it could be. She’s so glad that they don’t have to risk their life to have this child.

“Love you, Nanae,” she says, softly.

After a moment they shift around a bit, and reach up to brush a hand over hers.

“I love you too, little heart,” they say.


	5. ANB - Hormones

Uthvir sleeps in strange positions, sometimes.

They know it is not… customary. Curled in on themselves, and back to the wall, and arms folded over their stomach. Contorted around Thenvunin or some cushion or pillow. Jammed up against firm, cold walls or headboards. When they sleep lightly, they can usually manage to be less conspicuous about it. But when they really, truly sleep – as pregnancy requires of them, frustratingly often – their body betrays more defensiveness than they care for.

It is embarrassing.

It also causes and exacerbates a great many _aches._

Bathing helps. The bathrooms in their palace chambers have a large, deep pool, and every day they slip into it and enjoy the decreased pressure on their joints. The healers advocate as little magic to ease pain as possible, which is frustrating, but Uthvir is not so foolish as to risk using it anyway. Their unborn child has enough to worry about as it is, all things considered. Uthvir will not make themselves any more unsuitable a host for their tiny guest than they already are.

 _It is just a few months,_ they tell themselves.

But as their stomach grows, they seem to enter a state of perpetual discomfort. Their spine hurts. Their displaced internal organs are uncomfortable. The muscles of their back tense beneath their scars, hunching in their sleep, and their feet ache from perpetually carrying misplaced weight, and their skin itches from clothing that is not solid or heavy or structured enough to make them feel secure. At least in the bath, when they feel naked it is because they _are._

And they are always too hot or too cold, and they want to be touched and they want never to be touched again, and they jump and startle and their hands keep flying to swell of their stomach, as if summoned there by some unexpected magnetic pull. Which is useless because what good is a hand going to do on their stomach if something goes awry? If something goes awry they can better defend their little guest and themselves with a weapon or an urgent call for a healer.

They wake up one morning all twisted up in it. Everything aches. There is no way for them to lie down without something bothering them, but they have less than any desire to attempt standing. Their stomach is huge and some sweat has pooled behind their knees, but when they cast off the blankets they feel too exposed.

The blankets they’ve cast off rustle, and Thenvunin’s head emerges from them.

“I need to kill something,” Uthvir declares. And they do. That would help them feel better, they think. But they also still do not want to stand up. Potentially Thenvunin could bring them some sort of live prey and hand it to them, but that would probably defeat the spirit of the thing. And he would likely decline.

Thenvunin looks at them and sighs, and reaches out to curl a hand over their hip.

When they fail to shake it off or snarl at him, he begins running long, careful strokes across their skin. It is a bit like putting a bandage over a disembowelment, Uthvir thinks. But it is at least a _marginal_ improvement. They ease a little further down the bed, uncurling a bit from their defensive corner as Thenvunin spreads his touch carefully over the taught skin of their stomach, and the muscles of their thighs. As he wakes up a bit more he coaxes them into turning onto their side, with their back towards him.

They hear him rummage around the bedside table, and then he carefully begins to spread warm oil over the tensed muscles at the back of their neck. With touches that have become surprisingly practised at this point, he works over their scars, kneading and then withdrawing before it can become too discomfiting. His touch slides down to their lower back, and after a few moments they start pressing their hands against the wall, pushing themselves more firmly into his touch as the knots are eased and bit by bit, and some of the unholy discomfort is edged away.

Thenvunin is quiet, until at last Uthvir lets out a long, long breath, and finds that they can slump a bit without anything twinging along their spine. Then he presses a kiss to the back of their shoulder, and draws them up against him; his hands sliding over their stomach and chest.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yes,” they breathe.

They let him hold him until the feel of flesh against their back becomes too bothersome, and then they roll over. They kiss Thenvunin’s neck, and slink their own arms around him. He is a more than exemplary hot water bottle, at times. And masseuse. And… really Uthvir is beginning to believe that Thenvunin is, in fact, quite good at all aspects of these things, and that fate may have done him a grave disservice by not awarding him a suitable spouse and child thousands of years ago.

Uthvir’s gain, they suppose.

The corners of their eyes prickle and they swallow back a curse. That _keeps happening._ The accursed book which Thenvunin gave them said it would, but then, Uthvir had assumed that their self-control would also still be functional enough to at least deter it.

They attempt to be discreet, for this instance, by not swearing and snarling and drawing attention to themselves.

Thenvunin rests a hand on their stomach, and seems mercifully unaware of their state, even when several tears inevitably make their way onto his shoulder. They think he might have fallen back asleep, until he starts stroking his hand across their skin again, drawing it up to cup their cheek, and quietly brush away some of the excess moisture which may or may not have accumulated there.

They swallow.

This child is going to be the most neurotic creature that has ever lived, and it will be _entirely_ because it spent every single stage of its early development surrounded by Uthvir’s perpetual low-grade terror. They will not even be able to blame it on Thenvunin’s high-strung nature, because the man has gone and calmed down and entered some sort of philosophically patient and accommodating state that Uthvir frankly hopes does not outlast their pregnancy, because it is almost unsettling.

“I meant to do that,” they say. “The healers say weeping releases vital bodily essences.”

“I have heard that. Perhaps you should keep at it, then. Just while I hold you. It seems an appropriate time and venue,” Thenvunin says.

Uthvir mutters out a curse, because that makes their eyes itch all over again. But they burrow more firmly against him, stretching out oddly amidst the blankets to accommodate their stomach and their comfort and their desire to, it seems, weep into their husband’s hair, while he caresses them and murmurs gentle things.

Pregnancy is strange and uncomfortable.

The sooner they can get to the part where they actually _have_ the baby, they decide, the better. Then all the crying and coddling can be reserved for _it_ , and Uthvir can go back to being the intimidating one who kills things and stands menacingly in corners and makes wry remarks and cutting observations.

As it should be.

And in light of it all being temporary, they suppose, if there should be something cathartic in all of this…

Well.

Uthvir will consider it their tiny guest’s version of recompense for their current accommodations.


	6. ANB - More Hormones

The first time Uthvir cries, Thenvunin has no idea what to do.

They are six months along into the pregnancy. Lavellan is with them, and so is Thenvunin’s mother. Desire has gotten a recent transfer to the city, and has become a frequent visitor. Uthvir has lost enough prickliness that they are willing to leave the chambers, provided they are accompanied, and to have visitors, provided said visitors are acceptable to them. So far the list of acceptable people has included Tarensa, Nurevas, and Pride, of all people.

And Mythal, who has visited twice, out of courtesy, and mostly made polite small talk about the information from the healers before leaving again.

Things have improved somewhat, even though Uthvir’s discomfort is clearly persistent. But they have become slightly less irate and discontented, on the whole, and Thenvunin will gladly take any reprieve at this point. His hunter is back to smirking and smiling with far greater frequency, and their snaps and snarls tend to be directed more towards the universe at large than any particular individual.

And then one evening he goes to see if they would like to set out for the dining hall for dinner, or have Thenvunin bring something and eat in the garden, and he finds them sitting in a chair in their room, crying over what he gradually recognizes as an old toy of Lavellan’s.

_Crying._

They are sitting in place, frowning at the little plush songbird, as tears shine on their cheeks and their eyes are red, and one of their hands is at their mouth.

Thenvunin halts, shocked, and feels like someone has dumped a bucket of water over his head.

Intellectually, of course, he knows these sorts of things are _supposed_  to happen to pregnant elves. Fluctuations in the body’s natural chemistry and emotional disruptions caused by the presence of the infant’s developing awareness can lead to uncharacteristic displays, and physical stress and, particularly, insomnia such as the kind Uthvir possesses in abundance, can make restraint difficult to come by.

And yet.

It is _Uthvir._

He finds himself thinking that something must have gone far further wrong than some typical burst of emotion. A bolt of dread shoots down through him, and he wonders if they are hurt. It something terrible has happened. Why would they not come and get him? He rushes into the room, a flurry of distressed movements as he all but pounces upon them, then.

“What is the matter?” he asks, high and distressed. “Are you injured? Did you fall? Do you need the healers? Come here, we should get you to the hall. Do you need me to carry you? I should carry you anyway, just to be safe, if you are in pain you should not move.”

So saying he reaches for the hunter, only to find them batting him off, sharply. One of their hands brushes the tears from their cheeks, and they scowl at him.

“I am _fine,_  Thenvunin,” they insist, hissing through their teeth.

“You are not fine! You are weeping!” he snaps back.

“I got dust in my eyes!” Uthvir hisses, setting the old toy aside. “Contrary to popular rumour, I can, in fact, produce tears when given cause. In this case by irritants stirred up while I was going through some things for the baby. But please, do make more of a fuss over it, Thenvunin. Perhaps issue an announcement or two, confirming for everyone that I have functional tear ducts.”

The air around them is tense and fraught and wary, and Thenvunin gets the impression that they are not being sincere, and that worries him.

“That was a good deal of crying over dust,” he says.

Uthvir raises a brow, and their mouth tightens. The usual effect is somewhat ruined by the lingering redness in their eyes, though.

“It was a good deal of dust,” they reply. “Unless you suppose I am sitting here, sentimentally bawling my eyes out over scraps of fabric and memories?”

A hundred years ago, Thenvunin thinks that might have actually worked on him. Their dismissive air, their near-mocking tone, the body language, the diverting of attention from Uthvir’s state to Thenvunin’s perceptions and expectations. But he is wise to it, now. Uthvir lies and misdirects and bluffs, and when they are afraid of something, he has noticed, they have a habit of dragging it straight out so that they can try to kill it in the open air.

And right now it seems they are trying to kill the notion that they are an emotional mess of overt sentimentality.

Thenvunin hesitates, and finds himself attempting rather awkwardly to switch gears. He looks at the discarded little songbird toy. One of the first he ever gave to Lavellan, as he recalls. 

“I suppose… if you were crying because of, of things like that… That is perfectly alright, you know…”

Uthvir scoffs, and stands up.

“ _Really,_  Thenvunin,” they say, pushing past him, and heading over to a mirror to see if their eyes have cleared. “It was _dust.”_

Dust.

Of course.

 

~

 

The second time it happens, they are in bed together.

Thenvunin’s fingers are buried inside of Uthvir, and he is in a rare position, pressed against their back as they lean fully into him. He himself has been recently spent, and his wrist twists as he attempts to return the favour. Uthvir comes with a ragged breath, their hands clenching in the bedsheets, twisting further into him before they let out a sigh. Thenvunin kisses their cheek, and watches to see if they will wince, or begin to cramp, as has become common enough for them now.

When their brows furrow tellingly and they shift away from him, he brushes a hand carefully over their stomach, and moves down to press gentle kisses across it. Things seem to be going well enough as they start to relax, languidly slipping into a rare state of contentment.

And then they curse.

Sharply.

Thenvunin looks up, alarmed, wondering what has gone wrong. Uthvir has flung one of their arms across their face, covering their eyes as they lie back against the pillows.

“My heart? What is the matter?” Thenvunin asks, climbing back up to try and take better stock of them. There is no pain in their aura, though. He at least has enough sense to confirm that, this time, before his imagination gets away from him. But there is a twinge of frustration, and they do not move their arm to look a him.

“It is fine,” they say. “I am fine. Never mind that outburst. I only thought of something but, it is no matter.”

“What is it?” he wonders, anyway.

“Nothing of concern. Just something from a long time ago. A stray thought. But I am tired, now. We should sleep.”

They turn to roll over, and put their back to him - an uncommon position, these days - and by necessity at last move their arm. Thenvunin spies a gleam of moisture on their cheeks.

Realization dawns.

After a long moment of quiet uncertainty - how should he handle this, truly? Pretend he has not seen? Roll over and try to sleep? But how can he sleep, _Uthvir_ is _weeping,_  and Thenvunin has wept on Uthvir a fair few times, truth be told, and his hunter has always… has always helped.

Carefully, he runs long, gentle touches down Uthvir’s arm, and side. He leans in closer and kisses the back of their neck.

“I love you,” he murmurs against their skin. “My heart. My one love. I have never felt for another, what I feel for you.”

Uthvir is quiet for a moment. Almost tense.

But then they sigh, and roll over. They do not let Thenvunin see much of their tears. But they pull him too them, and let him put his arms around them, and press a few kisses of their own against his skin.

“Beautiful,” he calls them.

They nip at him, almost reproachfully. But they also relax again, bit by bit, until they fall into a decent night’s sleep.

 

~

 

The third time it happens, Thenvunin is ready for it.

They are in the gardens. He had been feeding his birds, and Uthvir had come along - mostly bored, it seemed. And then Old Screecher, whose continued livelihood and longevity is actually beginning to present Thenvunin with a new set of mysteries to mull over, had landed on the bench Uthvir was sitting on, and proceeded to try and groom the hunter’s hair.

Thenvunin did not quite realize it had happened, until Uthvir’s commentary tapered off, and he looked over and noticed his least-loved bird running a beak through the locks of his pregnant spouse. And then he had entertained half a moment’s worry that Uthvir would, given their current rasher of foul moods, break Screecher’s neck for the presumption.

They didn’t.

In point of fact, they seemed mostly just a bit baffled.

“I thought this bird hated me,” Uthvir says, nevertheless staying in place.

Thenvunin shrugs.

True enough, Screecher hates most people who are not himself. Or Lavellan, it seems. But familiarity likely plays its part in things as well. Uthvir has lived around the bird for some time now. Screecher has likely just come to accept them as part of the flock.

He muses as much as he turns back to feeding his other birds.

Uthvir lets out a soft curse.

When he glances over again, ready to shoo Old Screecher off in the even that it’s gotten too rough in its grooming, though, his hunter’s head his down and their cheeks are damp.

Thenvunin regards them carefully for a moment.

Then he turns back to his birds. He takes his time at it, finishing the chore much more slowly than usual, and being certain to check a few things he wouldn’t ordinarily bother with, and cluck over some of the more affectionate birds. That gets Screecher jealous, and it flies over to demand his attention instead. And when he is through with that, Uthvir’s cheeks are dry; even if the corners of their eyes are still somewhat red.

He moves over and gives them a hand up from the bench, and then pulls them into his arms.

“Feeling affectionate today?” Uthvir wryly asks.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Absolutely.”


	7. ANB - Creeper

“They certainly are keeping you locked up tight,” an unfamiliar voice calls.

Uthvir nearly jumps out of their skin.

The visceral alarm at hearing it is nearly embarrassing in its intensity, as they sit out by the garden fountain. And then it curves around, of course, the startled bolt of fear settling into a rush of sharp thought and almost-detached assessment. They tilt their gaze up and find that someone has gone and perched themselves on top of the garden wall.

Thenvunin’s garden is separated from the one of the more public ones by a high, white wall, that is not truly much of a challenge to overcome, for any resident of the palace who might care to take flight or put a little effort into climbing. Uthvir is well aware of this, though they are also well aware that few would breach a high-ranking elf’s privacy, particularly when their spouse is pregnant, and risk the consequences of it.

And indeed, the elf in question is straddling the line of breaking too many dire rules, as they lean atop the roof. Uthvir regards them carefully. They are not armed, it seems. And they do not look particularly strong, though looks can be deceptive in that regard. The face is passingly familiar. A regular resident of the palace, then. But something presses at them, and Uthvir ponders it until they recall - ah. The elf who had tried to approach Lavellan, back when she was still in her twenties. The one who had fled at the first sign of trouble, protesting ignorance of their target’s youth, in a fashion Uthvir had been sceptical of.

But he had never made quite enough trouble for Uthvir to trouble him overmuch in return.

“Oh yes,” they say, after a moment. “They have me locked up tight.”

The elf - what is his name? El-something? Elgaris? Uthvir decides they do not particularly care - smiles at them.

“I am sorry if I startled you,” he says. “It is only that no one ever told me that pregnant elves can look so radiant. I glimpsed you at the dining hall the other day. I suppose it is inappropriate, but I could not help but wish to get another look at you. It is remarkable, the effect your condition has had. Or perhaps it is only that it has made me look properly at you to begin with.”

Uthvir’s insides recoil against the admiring tone of the elf, and they have to bite down a brief, reflexive flair of nausea. While merited, it is also not precisely the angle they wish to take.

“Radiant?” they say, instead; soft and a little breathy. They blink a few times, and then turn their face downwards. “That is not what my husband says. He is not overfond of the change my form has taken.”

“That is a shame. He guards you jealously enough, even so,” the elf notes, clearly pleased with their reaction.

Uthvir shrugs.

“It is his child I am carrying, just the same. Even if he has scarcely touched me for months, now, I suppose I cannot claim to be lonely.”

The elf leans a bit further over the top of the roof.

“It is a crime to leave that lovely form untouched,” he declares.

Uthvir covers their face.

“What a thing to say!” they declare, watching the intruder through the framing of their fingers. The elf smiles, smug and very pleased with himself, and the apparent effect of his words.

“I will say more, I think. If your husband will not admire you, perhaps you might let me? I would kiss every inch of that lovely golden skin, if you were but close enough for me to try.”

Uthvir shudders at the thought. No. That will not be happening. But they try to play it off as a shiver, as they look up from their hands, and bat their eyelashes.

“My husband is in the city right now. He is always spending time there, it seems. I suppose if you were to climb down, we… might become better acquainted.”

The intruder seems quite eager, but then he hesitates.

“I would get into a great deal of trouble if I were to be found in that garden, though,” he states. “Could you not climb up to me?”

Uthvir blinks.

“You expect a heavily pregnant person to scale that sheer garden wall?” they ask, openly incredulous. With that kind of perceptiveness, they are honestly surprised the man has not yet been fed to some sort of altar by now. Even given Mythal’s more reserved sacrificial habits.

The intruder hesitates.

“I suppose you are not in any condition for that,” he says. “Perhaps you might sneak out, and meet me?”

“If I leave the chambers, my husband will know it,” they reply. “I would not dare risk his temper. He is quite terrifying in his own way, you know. Brutish, even.”

Uthvir watches, carefully, as the man wavers some more. His gaze flits over the garden, and the entryways leading into the main chambers. The quiet atmosphere, and lack of movement, and the gentle fluttering of Thenvunin’s birds. And then Uthvir, again. And apparently they make a tempting enough image that he opts to seize the moment.

He transforms into a jay bird, and swoops down; and has barely dipped below the wall before he lets out a startled cry, and freezes in place. The garden’s wards ripple and fluctuate, and the jay bird twists and lets out a few cries of pain. An alarm goes up, rippling red across the garden stones and through to the walls of the chamber.

“Your husband put up wards,” the intruder says, wide-eyed and a little frantic.

“Oh. No,” Uthvir replies. “The wards are my work. He did manage the alarm, though.”

They are about to inform their victim that several hundred years is not long enough for them to forget the face of someone who once harassed their daughter, but then Thenvunin arrives, in record time, with his sword drawn and his expression frantic.

And then thunderous, as he sees Uthvir, and the jay bird, and the rippling wards.

He strides forward, and Uthvir is a little surprised, even considering it all, when the first thing he does is put his hands around their shoulders and gently pull them a little further away from the rippling magic in the air. Not that they were anywhere near close enough to be in danger from it. But still.

They blink as he looks them over, utterly ignoring the intruder’s attempts to pass himself off as an actual bird.

“You are alright?” Thenvunin asks.

“Of course,” they reply. Then they nod at the jay bird. “How much trouble would it make for us if I gutted the little birdie?”

His grip on them tightens, just a little.

“I will handle this,” he declares.

Damn.

“I thought you might say that,” they lament. Though at least those wards _are_  impressively painful. They draw what satisfaction they can from the jay bird’s squawking, as Thenvunin lets go of them and rounds on the would-be interloper.

“Thenvunin, you do not understand, they invited me here!” the jay bird protests.

“Do not speak as if you lack a reputation, Elandaris,” Thenvunin snaps. “You wretched, loathesome disgrace! As if you could even be in a position to accept an invitation to this garden without lurking about it in the first place! Do you think I had forgotten the way your gaze fell so inappropriately upon them in the dining hall? If you had gotten a single finger onto them, you would be dead now.”

“I am inclined to agree, but in fairness, it would be because _I_  killed him,” Uthvir feels compelled to point out.

“I did not touch them!” Elandaris protests. “Not once! And I never would have! I only thought something was wrong, and wished to help!”

“With your penis?” Uthvir wonders, raising an eyebrow. 

Thenvunin’s already-furious aura goes positively _murderous_  at that. Uthvir blinks, and realizes that they have rarely seen him this angry before. Well and truly upset. It is almost enough to make Uthvir wish that they had found a way to capture this oily little bird that would not have alarmed him.

But it is also… not unappealing, in its way.

“You and I will duel this out, Elandaris,” Thenvunin decides. “I will make the appropriate petition to Mythal, and under the circumstances, she will not fail to grant it. In the meantime, I suggest you enjoy the garden.”

Uthvir raises an appreciate eyebrow at that little parting remark, as Thenvunin sheaths his sword and then takes their arm, and they go unresisting along with him into the chambers. The light show from the words makes an interesting display through the windows, as Elandaris calls protests and pleas and twists in his uncomfortable prison.

As soon as they are inside, Thenvunin all but drapes himself over them. He pulls them close and buries his nose in their hair, and shakes, trembling with residual fear and anger and a host of other emotions Uthvir cannot precisely interpret. But the shaking is enough. They feel another pang of unexpected regret, as they close their arms around him in turn.

“I was so frightened,” he says.  _“Uthvir.”_

“It is alright,” they soothe.

“What if he hurt you?”

“There was next to no chance of that happening. Give me a _little_ credit, Thenvunin. I may be pregnant, but I can still stab someone,” they say, patting his chest.

“You do not have any knives on your person,” Thenvunin points out.

Hmm. True enough, they suppose.

“Rip out their throat, then,” they amend. When he only shakes a bit, they sigh, and pull back somewhat.

“Look at me, my heart,” they instruct, and take his face into their hands until his eyes have focused on theirs. “I am fine. Everything is fine. The intruder is caught, and Mythal will very likely let you cleave him into little tiny pieces. Which I envy. I would much prefer to do it myself.”

Thenvunin stares at them a moment longer.

Then he lets out a long, tattered breath, and presses a hand over one of theirs. He turns his head, and kisses their palm. His emotions still storm, but the frantic bite of alarm has ebbed somewhat. Enough so that it is no longer making Uthvir feel annoyingly nauseated again.

“You lured him into the garden,” Thenvunin surmises.

“I recalled his face. He made Lavellan uncomfortable, a time or two,” they explain. “He was peering in at me. I suggested he might like a closer look.” At that, they grin, and show off the tips of their teeth.

Thenvunin sighs at them again.

“You should have come to get me,” he says. “You terrified me. I had no idea what had happened. I thought you had been injured, or something had gone wrong. I do not think I have ever run anywhere so quickly before in my life. My heart is still in my throat.”

Guilt pangs again, irritatingly persistent.

“…Perhaps I acted too… quickly,” they allow.

Thenvunin pulls them to him again.

In the end it takes a few solid minutes before he is quite willing to let go of them. And then he refuses to seek out Mythal, despite the wrathful look he gets every time he glances out towards the garden, until Lavellan and his mother return from their daily trip. Poor, poor Elandaris is left in some remarkable discomfort all the while.

For some reasons his petitions to the women in the family for mercy fall on deaf ears, as well. Lavellan all but sets up a post in the garden to scowl at the bird, and Elandaris attempts to garner sympathy only seem to make her more and more displeased with him. Uthvir is convinced that they will have to intercede to keep her from slicing up the little jay herself, but fortunately, Thenvunin returns before she reaches the breaking point.

He finally frees the intruder from the wards, only the grasp the jay bird by the neck, and carry him swiftly from their chambers again.

“Did Mythal grant permission?” Uthvir wonders, from their place on the parlour couch. Their feet hurt.

“I have leave for a non-fatal duel. After which, his punishment will be decided,” Thenvunin declares.

Uthvir blinks.

Well.

That is rather more than they might expect from Mythal, given her low opinion of them. A duel _and_  a punishment. Likely, then, it is the principle of the thing. They nod in acceptance, and Thenvunin nods back and then leaves all in a flurry, still clutching his prisoner by the neck.

Not so different from hunters after all, when it comes to it.

Uthvir supposes there will be a fight worth seeing on the training grounds, then.

They sigh. 

That means they are going to have to stand up again.


	8. ANB - Labour

The day it happens, Uthvir spends part of the morning walking around his chambers. They have one hand on their stomach, and a thoughtful, intent sort of frown on their face.

Thenvunin does not make too much of this, at first. It is not an uncommon display for Uthvir these days. He assumes they are contemplating something. Going over names, perhaps, or attempting to divine the nature of some craving, or other desire that is escaping their awareness. Possibly trying to recall something. Their memory has been somewhat less reliable of late, and they are often misplacing things and then scowling over it later.

He dressing for the day, and is about to ask after their thoughts when they halt, and nod to themselves.

“I am going into labour,” Uthvir says.

Thenvunin’s mind goes blank.

He drops the jacket he had been holding.

“What?” he asks, not certain if he heard correctly.

“I was not sure,” Uthvir tells him. “But I am fairly convinced now. I am going into labour.”

There is just the faintest tremor, past the veneer of their calm. An undefinable hint of something. But whatever it is, it snaps Thenvunin right out of his shock.

“I will get the healers,” he says. “Lie down, and do not strain yourself.”

“No,” Uthvir says, contemplatively. “This is fine. I feel better if I move a bit.”

Thenvunin has a horrible vision of the baby spilling out of them and straight onto the floor while they are standing, pacing his rooms, even though he knows that it most likely wouldn’t happen that way. Uthvir would – there would be – there cannot….

Healers. He will get the healers, although his instincts do not like turning and leaving the room while Uthvir is _in labour_ in it. But he thinks he would like trying to carry his hunter through the halls even less, where anyone might happen upon them in this state, and so he goes. He grabs Lavellan, still barely woken, from her own room, and manages to blurt out what is happening all in a rush until she grasps his arms and makes him go back – pointing out that he is still only half-dressed – and goes to get the healers herself.

“It is alright, Papa. Just keep an eye on Uthvir,” she says, and that, at least, is something he thinks he can manage.

He heads back into the room.

“That was quick,” Uthvir notes, still wandering carefully around. Their hands have migrated to their lower back now.

“Lavellan went to get the healers instead,” Thenvunin says, glancing down at himself. He is, indeed, in little more than his robe and the bottoms of his pyjamas. Hardly a fit state to be seen running through the palace in.

“Finish dressing,” Uthvir advises. They sound abnormally calm, all things considered. As calm, in fact, as they tended to sound about most things before they became pregnant. Thenvunin finds himself inclined to trust that tone of voice. It is their ‘yes, everything is on fire, Thenvunin, but that is no reason to lose our heads over it’ tone of voice. Their ‘there appears to be a large, feral beast slowly stalking us through the wilderness – we will have to deal with that before it comes for us in our sleep’ tone of voice.

Their ‘everything is painful and dangerous, but soon it will be over, so let us simply handle it’ tone of voice.

He heads back into his closet and finishes dressing. This will be the first outfit their new baby sees him in, he realizes. He dithers, a moment, and then selects one of the ones which Lavellan had made for him, back when she was younger. A softer style, muted and simplistic, unlikely to intimidate or overwhelm. Babies are sensitive, after all.

He keeps one eye on Uthvir, all the while. Watching as they continue to pace, and press at their back, and wince every so often. His mother emerges from her rooms at about the same time that the healers arrive, then. And everything seems very pointedly calm and careful.

Compassion comes with them. It is wary of Uthvir –most spirits tend to be – but it still drifts around them, assessing the hunter’s pain and deeming it ‘manageable’, before drifting over to greet Thenvunin. It curls around Lavellan, after that, and Thenvunin worries that perhaps some hidden insecurity of hers is manifesting now that her new sibling will actually be making their appearance. But if that is so, his daughter still seems as calm as anyone else, as Uthvir proclaims that they would like to go to their own room and lie down awhile, now.

Thenvunin takes their arm, and offers to carry them. They refuse him, but they do lean on him more heavily than usual as he guides them down the hall. The two healers who have come are reassuring and patient, and assure them that everything seems to be going well. His mother marvels that Uthvir’s pregnancy is stable enough for them to wander about, even at this stage.

But then, Thenvunin supposes, Uthvir is much more accustomed to dealing with outright pain than discomfort. He can tell somehow, looking at them. This is easier for them. This isn’t like enduring months of vulnerability. It will be over in hours, now, and then they will be able to heal and go back to being themselves, with a brand new baby to show for it. They are _relieved_ that they have finally arrived at this point. Past the pain of their contractions, it is written all over them.

And Thenvunin wishes he could feel the same way. But now that it is happening, his worries have seemed to quadruple. He cannot help but think. What if the healers are wrong? What if the labour goes wrong? What if they are injured, and suffer, and what it the baby comes out and it cannot survive beyond the safety of Uthvir’s body, because it has Thenvunin’s weak genes, and it perishes?

He gets Uthvir into their bed, and he brings them water. And then ice. He hovers and possibly babbles a bit, and is not sure if he should touch them or if they would hate to be touched, until they look at him and then reach over and take his hand.

“Breathe, Thenvunin,” they say.

He tries to.

And he keeps hold of their hand as the contractions come closer, and the pain obviously gets worse. And then he is the one reminding Uthvir to breathe, as they insist upon walking and moving around again, and gritting their teeth, as pained sounds escape them with more frequency. As they grip him tight enough to make the bones of his hand strain, and sweat pours off of them, and they can no longer keep the pain from suffusing their aura.

Compassion comes and helps in earnests, then. It brushes bright between them, and its presence eases the suffering.  His mother goes off to make the appropriate announcements, and inform Mythal; chased off a bit by her own difficult memories too, he thinks. But he does not mention it.

It seems to take an eternity as hours trickle by and the intensity builds, and then it goes swiftly, after, as the baby is finally pushed free, and Thenvunin stares in amazement at the tiny, red-flushed, wrinkled little form. So small. He forgets what breathing is entirely as the first cry splits the air. The healers check over and swaddle the newborn, and announcing quite happily that the child is healthy and sound.

Perfect.

Perfect as their first baby.

Thenvunin is handed the infant, and then the healers turn to Uthvir; now able to use as much magic as they please on them without risking the delicate equilibrium of their baby’s development. He is urged to step back, and he does, curling his arms protectively around their infant. Uthvir makes a singular sound of protest, and he realizes the problem straight away; he moves so that the both of them are more clearly in his hunter’s line of sight, while the healers fix them up.

Lavellan comes up to his side.

The baby is much smaller than she was, the first time he saw her. Tiny little fingers and a scrunched face, with no features he can readily discern as belonging to either parent just yet. The aura coming off of it is small. Confusion, mostly. The world is big and confusing and much more strange from the outside of Uthvir, he suspects.

Wide blue eyes stare up at him.

“Blue,” he marvels, a bit surprised. Where did the blue come from?

“Newborns often have blue eyes. They might change later,” Lavellan tells him. It seems she read some books that he had not gotten around to. She reaches over and runs a finger over the tiny, feather-light strands of her newborn sibling’s hair.

“Hello, little one,” Thenvunin says. His vision is getting blurry. “Hello.”

And then the healers have finished, for the most part, with Uthvir, though they have to stop the hunter from immediately hurdling out of bed. Thenvunin is invited to move closer once again, and he and Lavellan both do. He settles the baby into Uthvir’s arms; reluctant to let go, but also deeply satisfied to see them settle in together. Uthvir holds the blanket carefully, and peers down at the little face. And then leans in and presses a kiss to the top of the baby’s head.

“Well done,” they say, very quietly.

Lavellan leans against Thenvunin’s shoulder.

“I think we should be telling _you_ that,” she says. “You made it through the whole pregnancy and got the baby out of it and everything.”

“Amazing,” Thenvunin agrees, a little shakily.

“It was, it seems, a group effort,” Uthvir replies, their voice still uncommonly soft and gentle. Relieved. Intensely so, and Thenvunin can hardly blame them for that, when he feels much the same. It is alright. For now, at the end of it, it is _alright._ They have their new baby. No more pregnancy. No more waiting.

It feels as if every clutching nightmare that has dogged his steps this entire time finally lets go of him, and he feels light and happy and free. His family is alright. Uthvir is alright. Their new baby is alright.

He smiles.

And then passes out cold.


	9. ANB - Newborn

Uthvir holds their new baby, while Thenvunin sleeps beside them.

Lavellan had gotten him up off of the floor after his collapse, and settled him in next to them, and fussed over all three of them for a bit before withdrawing to let them rest. The room is quiet, now. The baby is sleeping. Bundle in soft blankets, in Uthvir’s arms instead of their insides; which is, in their opinion, a much preferable situation.

They stare contemplatively at the little face. She, they think. Or maybe not? But it’s a good enough guess, they suppose. Like her big sister, at least until she can make her own preferences known. That should not take too long, they think. Lavellan had been very certain of herself, and Thenvunin is rarely hesitant to voice his opinions. Nor is Uthvir, for that matter.

For the moment, it is impossible to say who the baby takes after. The only emotions she has managed to project so far have been confusion and sleepy contentment. Coming into the world is difficult no matter how it is done, Uthvir supposes. They contemplate her scrunched up little face, and wonder who she will take after.

Thenvunin sleeps at their side, overcome and finally collapsing in a mixture of relief and exhaustion and overwhelming sentiment. After a few minutes, though, he shifts. And Uthvir feels a brief surge of worry, flaring straight out of him, before wonderment rears up to replace it. The bed is warm and quiet. A little cocoon-like, and they realize that is their own doing; that they have been blanketing it in a sort of protective sphere of mingled camouflage and affection.

They suppose there is not much reason to stop.

Thenvunin rolls over and leans against their shoulder, and stares silently at their new baby for a moment. The mesmerizing rise and fall of her breaths. The little motions of her tiny mouth. She is so _small._ Was Lavellan this small? Uthvir does not think so. But she was tiny, too. She was so tiny, and Uthvir had not known the first thing of what to do with her, of how to comfort her. They had not held her nearly enough, they think. It had taken them so long to figure out the simplest things with her. Thenvunin had seemed to know them all so easily.

“I am so glad you are here,” Uthvir whispers. It would be hard for them to say who they are speaking to more; the baby in their arms, or the husband at their side. Or the daughter outside, busily fielding curious inquiries and making sure everything stays calm and quiet. Their body still aches, but it is back in its usual shape. Everything has returned to normal, and nothing will ever be the same again.

A slightly fraught, overwhelmed note slips into their own field of emotions. The baby stirs a little. Thenvunin leans into them, and kisses their cheek.

“Everything is alright,” he assures them, sleepily.

They sigh, and glance ruefully at him.

“How would you know? You passed out,” they tell him.

“If something had gone wrong, you would not be nervous,” he murmurs, resting his head onto their shoulder, and looking down at the slowly rousing newborn. “When everything goes wrong, your Nanae is the calmest person in the world. When everything goes right, then they start to worry.”

The baby’s face scrunches, and twists, and she lets out an irritated little cry.

Uthvir rocks her a bit, though, and Thenvunin rests on of his hands on her, and she settles.

“I know,” Uthvir whispers. “What a strange Nanae to end up with. Lucky you have your Papa, who knows precisely how to be sensible, and look after people.”

Thenvunin works an arm around them. A few wet droplet fall onto the baby’s blanket, and trickle down Uthvir’s collar, as their husband presses another kiss to their cheek.

“Everything it alright,” he repeats again; this time sounding less reassuring than brokenly relieved. “You are alright. The baby is alright. You are both perfect and alright.”

Uthvir snorts, softly.

“Well. _She_ is perfect, and we are alright,” they say.

“Both of you are perfect,” Thenvunin insists.

“I think you hit your head when you fell,” Uthvir counters, wryly. But this only gets them pulled more securely into their husband’s arms, where they find themselves surprisingly content to stay, and hold their baby, and be held, and kissed, and told ludicrously affectionate things.

It is all soft and warm and safe.

They close their eyes, and let out a long, long breath.


	10. ANB - Freeway

Their new baby is quite a bit different from Lavellan.

Of course, Thenvunin supposes that is only to be expected. The new baby is a different person, after all. And in the end Waking-born babies can be as different from one another as newborn spirits. Not to mention that Lavellan was a bit older when Andruil first found her, and then older still when Uthvir won her, and brought her to him. She had more of a sense of herself, Thenvunin thinks. More certainty.

The new baby is less… defined. More curious and open. But after a while, a few preferences start to manifest. Her eyes change to match Thenvunin’s, which Uthvir unabashedly approves of. She likes to be held and cuddled and sang to, just like her sister had, but she is also _much_ noisier. There are no silent tears from her. Instead she wails and screams like she’s being murdered any time she wants something or does not want something or cannot see either Uthvir or Thenvunin or Lavellan or her grandmother, or feel the emotions from them.

The first little while proves to be a hectic tumult, as Uthvir finishes recovering, and their new baby is settled in, with her crib surprisingly unused as she seems to sleep best when she is securely snug against someone’s chest.

Her own emotional queries tend to be nearly as loud as her voice, and about as simple, too. Confusion is common, but curiosity gradually rises to replace it. The relevant spirit seems to flit about the baby’s dreams, drawn in by her budding interest in all her strange new surroundings. Gradually the wispy hair on her head starts to fill out into soft, pale strands, and Thenvunin sees shades of Uthvir’s golden complexion in her skin.

Most of the first few weeks are focused entirely on the baby, and looking after the baby, and figuring out a name for the baby, and noticing new things about the baby.

One evening they are debating the matter of names, as Lavellan lies on her sofa with her sister napping on her chest, and Thenvunin pours through an old book on naming conventions and fortuitous appellations. Uthvir is busily moving the crib into the room, so the baby can stay with their daughter for the night.

“Should we be doing this while the baby is not awake?” Thenvunin wonders. “How will we know if she does not like her name?”

“We can always change it later, Papa,” Lavellan reasons, languid and drowsy as she keeps her breath steady; the rise and fall of it soothing her sister’s sleep.

“I suppose,” he agrees. “What about Vhenrevas? It might be too bold…”

He trails off, considering.

“I think the odds of some boldness manifesting are fairly high,” Uthvir opines. Their tone is light, but their actual voice is quiet as they finish moving the crib, and go stand where they can see both of their children resting together.

“…Virevas,” Lavellan suggests, after a moment. “Let her choose her own path.”

That is… a very good name for her, Thenvunin thinks. Especially when she may indeed opt to replace it in short order. He stares as his daughter, and then glances at Uthvir. That name has some of her nanae’s elements in it, too.

“I like it,” he decides.

Uthvir considers a moment, and then inclines their head.

“I suppose it is suitable,” they decide. 

It is a relief to have found a name. Thenvunin puts his book aside, and gets to his feet, and brushes Lavellan’s forehead before gently running a finger over Virevas’ tiny little fist. Her mouth purses a little in her sleep, but she does not wake. He murmurs her new name to her, all the same.

Who will she be, he wonders?

He looks at Uthvir, and his breath catches at the softness of their smile.

 _I hope you are like your nanae,_  he thinks to her. _And like your sister._

_And like yourself._

Virevas purses her lips again, and dreams.


	11. ANB - Sharp

Their daughters are sleeping, safe and sound, in Lavellan’s room. Tucked safely away for the night, with everything they need to see them through until morning. 

There are sound-blocking wards on the hallway. One-way, so that if anything goes disastrously wrong, Thenvunin and Uthvir will be able to hear it; but ensuring that, in turn, no… stray sounds that might occur will wake up any sleeping infants, or traumatize any grown daughters.

Thenvunin shudders, awash in anticipation, as Uthvir rounds on him in the dimly lit privacy of their room. They are in full form this evening, it seems. They had gone out during the day for their first proper excursion in months, clad in their armour, sharp and grinning and quite ably terrifying most of the palace population into wondering if that whole ‘softer, less predatory, more child-heavy’ version of themselves had not been some sort of mass hallucination.

And then they had come home, and taken a long look at Thenvunin. A long, long look, that had been very distinct in tone and had made parts of himself that he was not even aware had gone quiet suddenly light up in excitement. And then Uthvir had changed into softer, more comfortable clothes, and spent most of the afternoon with the baby, before asking if Lavellan would mind watching her for the evening.

Lavellan had looked distinctly amused as she’d agreed.

And now Uthvir is… _Uthvir-ish_  again. Not that they ever _weren’t_  Uthvir, of course, but they were uncomfortable and vulnerable and different, too. And part of Thenvunin had liked their softness, and how much they had needed him. But part of Thenvunin had also missed their sharpness, and those edges, and that gleam in their eye; and that part of him is all but trembling now as Uthvir stalks towards him, and comes up just shy of touching him. Tilts their head upwards, and smirks. The sharp points of their teeth glinting in the moonlight that streams in through their windows.

“ _Thenvunin,”_  they purr.

He is so aroused that he can scarcely see straight, and they have not even touched him yet.

At the sound of their voice the heat of him spikes, and his want surges into the air, and that is all it takes to have them pinning him to the wall behind himself, nipping his lips and drawing a bead of blood, and whispering against it until all of his skin is crackling in a wash of sensitivity. Oh, he had misses this. He had missed being able to have magic used this way. Missed the fervent rush of it, of knowing they were going to hold him, and take him, and that neither of them had to worry overtly about risks or positions or aches and pains. At least, not beyond the usual concerns of sex.

“Uthvir,” he begs, gasping, incapable of being anything other than eager and wanton over it now. “Please.”

He gasps as they growl at him, tearing at his clothes, the fabric pulling taught against his skin before it is rent beneath their claws. Stinging a little, snapping tightly places that their nails trail over, and their mouth follows. They shred his tunic and turn his belt to ribbons, and take apart his leggings in sharp, pointed motions that come just short of raking his skin. Then they grasp him by the hips, and press him back even more firmly against the wall. Nails sharp upon his skin while they get their mouth onto him, and he pants, curses, clutches their shoulders and tries to hold back before he… he…

He spills down their throat, to fired up and eager to last long at all. A cracked cry escapes his throat. His knees go weak, and his skin tingles, and his vision whites out for a moment.

Uthvir smirks at him, letting him loose only to assail him again. They mouth at his softening erection, and trail playful bites onto his thighs, before dragging him away from the wall. He staggers, surprised enough by the sudden movement and shaky enough from his orgasm that he completely loses his footing; but they only catch him and sweep him up, and carry him the rest of the way to the bed. All but purring like a pleased cat, so happy with their catch.

Their obvious pleasure at having him at their mercy is… compelling.

They set him out on the bed and take a moment to regard him, as he pants a little, still recovering from their hasty actions of a moment ago. They run a hand down his chest as it rises and falls, their fingers tracing a track all the way down his stomach and back to his groin, and he twists a bit, trying to roll over. He wants them so badly. Wants them inside of him. Taking pleasure in him.

But they deter him, pressing him pointedly flat to his back again before they reach down and retrieve several soft lengths of rope from under the bed. He twists yet more, impatient, as they carefully bind him him. Restrain his arms to his chest, and roll him to his side, and then tie his legs together. So he will only be able to lie there and take them, however they see fit to take him. They press slow kisses to him as they go, lingering at the pulse points of his wrists, and the skin of his abdomen, and the pebbled surface of his nipples.

He shivers as they trail a finger over his erection, as he gradually harden again under their hands. Just a light, teasing touch. Enough to make him twitch. Then they draw their hand over his hip, and give his backside a firm smack. Hard enough to sting, and make him twitch again as he gasps in surprise.

They drag their sharp nails across the tingling nerves, before shortening them. And, oh, as scintillating as those razor points can be, feeling them soften and knowing what it means his pulse racing. And so does the familiar trickle of oil between his cheeks, and the first light, probing touch they follow it with. He can move enough to grind back on their fingers - too soon, perhaps, as his delicate muscles protest the intrusion, and Uthvir withdraws and leans forward to nip him instead.

“So impatient,” they say.

“It has been _months,”_  Thenvunin counters. And even as he says it, he realizes how absurd that might seem. There was, he recalls, a period of time when going _years_  without Uthvir’s touch in any fashion was not uncommon. But Uthvir only purrs an agreement, and after a moment, draws their hand back to their task; using the other one to the hold his hips in place, this time.

They sink their fingers into him slowly, despite his efforts, stretching and pressing, searching until they find the right angle to make his breath hitch, and his neck arch backwards at the sudden warm rush of pleasure. Then they work at him deliberately, as he gasps and strains at his bonds. His erection throbs and leaks at the familiar, skilled touch, and he swallows back a curse. They are going to make him come again before they are even inside him.

Insufferable creature. The second curse escapes him as they twist three fingers into him, and it nearly does him in. They move the hand from his hip to stroke at him. The nails on that hand sharpen again, and they drag the tips over his sensitive skin; far too light to hurt, but the slow tracing of those pointed edges over him has him biting his lip and struggling to hold still. It is not enough. Their fingers curl instead of him and their touch on him is so light, so maddening and perfect.

“Fuck,” he says, as they toy with the head of him. He is certain he is going to come… and then all at once they withdraw. 

Fingers pull out of him. Their hand releases him.

He barely manages a whine of protest before they spread him open, though, angling him half onto his stomach, the bindings firm and his nerves on fire as they thrust into him in a single, fluid motion.

He is not certain if it is the sensation itself or the knowledge of it that takes him more thoroughly, but as they sink into him, he comes in a breaking rush.

He lets out a cry, hips rocking to try and grind against the bedspread below him and the cock stretching him open at the same time. Uthvir growls possessively, clutching at him, their own hips snapping as they begin to thrust in and out. Pressing so tightly against him, going so deep and so fierce that he finds himself making tiny sounds with their every move. 

It is always a strange sensation, to have them going at him so relentlessly when he is still coming down from his own orgasm. Near-painful to have his over-stimulated nerves stimulated further, and yet, the hunger in it, the relentlessness of it, never fails to make his flesh feel molten. Uthvir slows down after a few moments, the pace turning from fierce to steady, and their hands rove over him. Caressing as they brush his hair aside and kiss the back of his neck, and his shoulders. Spread their hand over his abdomen, and nip at his earlobes.

“Those pretty sounds,” they say. “Those lovely cries, when you open up for me. They are so spellbinding, my heart. I do not know if there is a more erotic sound in all the world. But I imagine that if there was, I would have to fuck you to find it.”

He gasps and flushes, biting back on the next of those sounds as he finds himself so taken by a confused set of responses to that praise that he falls back on old habits.

“Thenvunin,” Uthvir purrs by his ear, thrusting into him again. “Let me hear you.”

He pants, a heavy ‘ah’ escaping him. But then something contrary rises up in him, and he swallows back the next one. And the next. Until Uthvir’s pace is increasing again, and his own spent cock is trying to rise up along with it. He bites his lip and stems the tide of sound, even so.

“Let me hear you,” Uthvir says, tightening their grip on him. “Thenvunin. Please. _Please_.”

“ _Uthvir,”_ he gasps, so hopelessly taken by their beseeching, even as they command the situation. To have them pleading for him, even while he is at their mercy. They reward him by closing a hand over him, cupping him as they thrust fiercely into him.

They hiss his name again, and turn wilder, stroking him a moment longer only to grasp his hips and take him at a frantic pace. The sharp slap of flesh resounds amidst both of their panting gasps and moans, until his hunter stiffens at his back, and comes inside of him.

They are still and tense for a moment, before sagging against him. His own flesh is renewed, and he squirms back into them. Fingers curl futilely against his chest. They press more kisses to him, sloppy and sated; and even though they are softening, they stay inside of him as they continue to draw a hand over him. Light and teasing. Dragging it on and on.

“Uthvir,” he beseeches. 

“It has been so long since I was inside of you,” they say. “Did you think I meant to pull out any time soon?”

He makes a strangled sound.

And slowly but surely, their hips start to rock into him again. Their long nails trace delicate patterns over his sensitive skin again. In the morning, Thenvunin will wake, slightly sore and incredibly satisfied. And he will make a point of taking Uthvir into his arms, and his lap, and making love to them so slowly that they unravel completely. 

But now he is theirs, and they are doing their own unravelling. 

He is entirely taken by it. Lost to it.

And quite happily so.


	12. ANB - Soft

Thenvunin can admit, after all is said and done - he is excited beyond measure by Uthvir’s sharp points.

But there is something almost sacred in their softness.

He thinks this in the morning, when he wakes, sore and sated, to the feeling of lips upon his collarbone. Lazy kisses. The slow drag of which make his skin tingle, as he lets out a sleepy breath, and flops an arm over Uthvir. Brushing the back of their neck, and then trailing his touch down towards their shoulders. To the rough marks of their scars, tracing them just gently.

Uthvir pauses in their kisses, and it gives him enough of an opening to roll them over; engulfing them in blankets and his arms, in the middle of the bed, their head slipping between the pillows so it looks as though they are being swallowed by softness. Thenvunin would drown them in it, he thinks. Come to it. When they are naked and open and affectionate like this. He wants everything that touches them to be gentle, to be safe, and loving, and sweet. He wants them to have that. To have places where nothing will hurt them or threaten them, where there is no danger to fear; where they do not have to protect themselves, or Thenvunin, or their children.

He leans in, and kisses them. Captures their lips once, and then twice.

“I love you,” he says.

Uthvir moves, just a bit. Not quite squirming, but Thenvunin has learned that this - gentleness, affection, praise, happiness - this is what cracks away all that sharp eggshell armour and leaves behind something soft and golden and sweet. 

“Beloved. Dearest heart. My very own love,” he murmurs, punctuating his endearments with kisses. Uthvir makes a unconvincing sound of protest, and flushes a bit, and mutters something about excessive sappiness. Not that it is a protest Thenvunin _at all_  believes at this point. It is, he thinks, even less believable than his own past protestations of Uthvir’s own ministrations. Their arousal is growing against his thigh, and when he kisses the pulse point of their neck, he can feel it racing. Their arms slip around him, embracing him.

“I am yours,” he promises them.

Their fingers dig into him. Just a little. But their nails are soft.

Their gasps are soft, too, as he sticks to his kisses and caresses; to moving just gently against them, letting the full flood of his tenderness cascade out of him. He wants to see them, he thinks. See them in the morning light, all soft and pliant in his arms, and so he sits up and hauls them into his lap. The daylight streaming in through the windows is shining where it catches on the decorative glass. Casting delicate patterns across the floor, and over their skin.

“All that effort last night, and you still want more,” Uthvir sighs, moving their arms to his shoulders.

“ _I_ am just being accommodating. My spouse is insatiable, after all,” Thenvunin replies, as his own growing arousal brushes against their skin. Sliding alongside theirs as he settles them into his lap. He reaches down and strokes them, coaxing a breathier sigh from them. Shifting his hips a bit has them more firmly pressed together. It is impossible not to notice how _compact_  Uthvir is, like this. They might be strong enough to move Thenvunin however they please; to shove him off, or pick him up, or carry him over their shoulder. But they are also small enough for Thenvunin to hold easily like this. To sweep into his grasp, whenever they are inclined to let him.

He strokes them both, pressing their erections together, biting his lip at the feel of Uthvir’s silky soft skin against his own. They rest their head against his shoulder and buck their hips a bit, their breath hitching.

“Thenvunin,” they say.

He loves how they say his name. As if there is nothing they want more in all the world. As if he is the most alluring of creatures, the most beloved of spouses. Beautiful and desirable and trusted and needed, and everything else he ever fears that he is not, in the dark, when there is nothing and no one else to counter the whispers of his own insecurities.

He lightens his touch. Runs his fingers over them, over their flushed skin and soft, sensitive places, until they are rocking against him. Clutching at him again, moaning when his fingers curl more firmly around them.

They come with a sigh, reaching down and drawing him into following them, and making a sticky mess of things between them. Thenvunin buries his nose in their hair, and just breathes them in for a moment.

Then the sound of an infant crying breaks the atmosphere.

Uthvir sighs.

“Lavellan has her,” Thenvunin says. Though whether he is assuring them or himself more is difficult to say.

Gently, his spouse untangles themselves from him. They plant a firm kiss against his lips.

“Even so. I suppose we should climb out of bed and make ourselves presentable,” they reason. 

Thenvunin is surprisingly tempted to just sprawl back into the covers with them, in fact. But then he thinks of having breakfast with their daughters, and that is appealing enough, too. His skin is tingling and warm, and Uthvir is happy and close; and after a moment, the sounds of crying stop.

He smiles, and contents himself with another kiss, before surrendering to the day.


	13. ANB - Development

Lavellan expects there to be some… issues, With Uthvir and Thenvunin, actually having a baby that is an actual, normal baby. 

It’s not that strange for her to stick around after Virevas’ birth. She worries about Varric, of course, but the family of dwarves that had taken him in are exceptionally fond of him. And he’d understood, she’d thought.

He usually did.

But yes. She expects there to be some issues, and that she might need to intervene in them. Uthvir and Thenvunin do better than she’d thought, though. Especially at first. They don’t attribute Virevas’ differences from her to anything other than that - differences. It probably helps that they know they’ve got her from the start, that she just seems ‘younger’ to them in every way from Lavellan. Smaller. Such a tiny little baby, with such a very loud voice.

She’s enchanted by her sister, to be honest. As taken with her as anyone. Big, big eyes, and soft, wispy hair, and tiny little fingers and toes.

But as she plumps up and fills out, as the weeks turn to months and then inch towards her first year though, _that’s_  when the worry starts to kick in. When she can see it in the eyes of Papa and Nanae. That Virevas isn’t speaking as quickly or as clearly as Lavellan had. That she isn’t mastering her motor skills as well.

Lavellan has to stop them both from letting her have anything small enough to fit in her mouth.

“Do not be ridiculous,” Thenvunin says. “Why would she put a bead in her mouth? You never did that.”

Virevas promptly tries to stuff the bead into her mouth, and she has to catch her sister’s chubby little fist and stop her. She can still remember the impulse, which is strange to think about. Of being small and wanting to grab things, to try and eat things. She’d been cognitive enough of what that impulse was and mature enough to resist it the vast majority of the time.

Now she kind of wishes she’d given in more often.

Thenvunin looks aghast.

“It is normal,” she assures him. “Until she is about three years old.”

“I had assumed that was an exaggeration made to account for especially dim-witted babies,” he admits.

But the point is made. And it seems to begin a trend of concerned looks, and fretting, and fussing. Not that no one fretted or fussed or worried over the baby before, of course. But she walks in on a few quiet conversations that halt as soon as someone else is around to hear them. One evening she heads into the garden and finds Uthvir holding Virevas in their lap, wiping fresh soil carefully off of her fingers.

They kiss the top of her head.

“Nanae still loves you,” they say. “Even if you are odd enough to try to eat worms.”

Virevas looks a little uncertain at the worry in their tone, until Uthvir smiles, and then she smiles back at them.

When Lavellan’s little sister is still only at babbled baby-speak, she intercepts another one of Thenvunin’s worried looks down at her crib.

“This is normal,” she says. “Virevas is normal. _I_ was the strange one.”

“You are both perfect,” Thenvunin insists, quietly, still looking down at this youngest daughter while she naps. Uthvir’s getting their wish, Lavellan thinks. Virevas is shaping up to take after their papa in looks.

Reaching over, she curls a hand onto Thenvunin’s shoulder.

“Come on. You know what I mean.”

After a moment, he sighs, and nods.

“I do.”

“She is fine. She is happy. You and Nanae are taking perfectly good care of her, and she has all the time in the world to grow up at her own pace.”

 _That_  seems to work, at last. Thenvunin smiles at her, and some of the tension eases from him. All the time in the world. Well, maybe not quite. But there’s no need for her sister to grow up quickly. Just like there was no real risk of Uthvir dying in giving birth to her. There’s no haste to the notion that she has to start walking, start moving, start helping to earn her keep bit by bit, because every little bit matters. She can just… sleep on pillows shaped like clouds, and play with her toys, and figure out the world at her own pace.

Virevas’ eyelids flutter in her sleep, and her little mouth works like she’s dreaming about eating something.

Maybe worms.

Lavellan smiles, and brushes a little wispy lock of hair from her forehead.

Thenvunin seems to settle, after that.

Uthvir, to her surprise, keeps on worrying, though. Not quite as overtly. But they watch Virevas even more intently than she can recall them watching her. Critically examining every single toy she gets; every article of clothing that goes on her little body. Every meal she has, and object she reaches for. As if all of it might become dangerous to her in a moment’s notice.

And then brooding, sometimes, in the evenings.

“It is my fault,” she overhears them saying to Thenvunin one morning, when she gets up early and goes to check on her sister, only to find both parents already there. She halts beyond the doorway, surprised by the tone of her nanae’s voice.

“Do not be ridiculous. She is _fine,”_  Thenvunin says. “It is not as if she _needs_ to do things quickly.”

Then he looks up and sees her, and the conversation stops.

But she thinks she uncovers the source of Uthvir’s distress a few days later, when she’s going through the books on childcare that the family has procured from the library. Looking for something to reassure them with. One of the texts is about ‘pre-birth development’, and as soon as she starts reading it, she finds herself irrationally angry with the author.

It is, she decides in short order, a _horrible_  book.

The whole thing is basically comprised of ‘tips’ for expectant parents who are carrying infants, on how to ‘ensure the best care’ for their baby. Some of it is fine, she supposes. The nutritional information is very useful, and the bits about dealing with aching muscles and managing pain without magic seem fair enough, and in keeping with many things she herself recommended to Uthvir.

But then there is the section on ‘spiritual wellness’, and that, she knows, is what has done it. The book makes a great deal of fuss over introducing developing infants to ‘vital spiritual energies’ to ‘ensure a large and healthy spirit, with great magical potential’, and warns of dire consequences for neglecting socialization with a variety of elves, or exposure to spirits of specific natures.

It seems to go to exceptional lengths to decry elves who ‘shut themselves away’ and limit their contact to close friends and family as paranoid, selfish, and neglectful. The judgement dripping off of the pages seems excessive; though, admittedly, she might be biased on that subject.

It’s… possible she takes that entire section out of the book and incinerates it a little.

It wasn’t helping anyone anyway. Not a single elf in her own time would have had access to any of those energies, and besides which, Virevas has plenty of spirit. If anything it’s one of the few qualities in her that _no one_  has worried about. She laughs, shrieks, cries, and plays with abandon, and her spiritual presence is much more potent and cheery than Lavellan’s own had been as an infant.

After dealing with the book, she waits for Uthvir to get back from their latest excursion. Thenvunin is giving Virevas her bath by the time the hunter returns, and checks on them, and then withdraws to work at their desk awhile.

Lavellan waits until they’ve taken off some of their armour, and then goes and swoops in and plants a kiss on their cheek. Having Virevas seems to have made them a bit more tactile, these days. They hug her like they’re trying to make up for something.

“Hey, Nanae,” she says.

“Little heart,” they reply.

She takes a minute, looking at them. It makes her think of the first time they tried to feed her. Holding out the bottle like they didn’t know what to do with it, as she gave into the humiliating experience of _needing_  that kind of care.

And then they’d vowed to look after her.

“You know you did good, right?” she asks.

“With what?” Uthvir wonders, raising an eyebrow.

“With everything,” she tells them. “With me. With Papa. With Virevas. She has so much spirit. I think it is because she knows she is safe. She knows, deep down, that no matter what happens or how frightening things get, that you will look after her. Just like you looked after me. She knows she has plenty of time to figure out who to be.”

Uthvir hesitates.

Then they reach up, and brush a hand over her cheek.

“You were easy to look after,” they say.

“And Virevas is a bit harder,” she surmises.

They look a little lost at that sentiment.

“Well. You _did_  want her to take after Papa,” she reminds them.

Her nanae snorts, at that. And then they chuckle outright, and let out a long sigh.

“That is a… fair point,” they concede. Just a touch ruefully. “Your grandmother did say she is much like him, if more mobile.”

There is a sound from the hall. Footsteps. They both look up as Thenvunin walks past, shirtless, and carrying Virevas in a towel. She’s grinning at him, kicking her little legs. And when she catches sight of them she bursts into happy babbles and extends her hands towards them.

“Na!” she manages. “Na-nee! Nanae!”

Thenvunin stills.

Uthvir goes rigid with shock beside her, before standing straight up from the desk.

“Did she just…?”

“Nanae!” Virevas repeats, utterly thrilled with herself.

She’s not the only one, as in short order Thenvunin is gushing at her, and Uthvir hurries over and swiftly plucks her up from his arms, and stares at her in astonishment.

“Well done,” they tell her, gently.

She pats their face, and plants a smacking kiss on their cheek.

“Na,” she says, apparently tired of the whole word now.

Uthvir returns her kiss, and then points to Thenvunin.

“Papa,” they say.

Virevas turns her head and looks at Thenvunin like she’d almost forgotten he was there. She smiles at him, though, and stuffs a few fingers into her mouth. Babbling something that sounds suspiciously like ‘den-doo-den’ at him.

Thenvunin sighs.

“ _Really?”_  he asks. “How is trying to say my full name easier than ‘papa’?”

“I have no idea,” Uthvir admits, grinning in unabashed delight.

“Den-den!” Virevas decides, kicking her legs again.

“Papa,” Thenvunin corrects, with the weary patience of a man who endured his eldest daughter trying to say his full name for _weeks_  before she gave in.

Lavellan stares at them, and feels a worry in her unclench a bit. Virevas probably won’t hold out quite so long as she did. Or maybe her little sister will. For all that she might not approach the world with the same self-assuredness and maturity that Lavellan’s odd circumstances had packaged her with, she has none of the reluctance or trauma, either. She runs happily towards unfamiliar spirits and new people. Unabashedly delights in almost every toy she gets. Demands kisses and hugs and cuddles like they’re going out of style, and has no fear of this strange and shining world around her.

She might not have had the same headstart, but she’s got none of the baggage, either. And she’s shaping up to be pretty self-possessed, come to it.

Yeah, Lavellan thinks.

They’re going to be fine.


	14. ANB - Virevas

Virevas is four years old when Lavellan heads back to the village, for more than just a few weeks of absence. Thenvunin and Uthvir have to explain to their youngest that Lavellan will be coming back to visit, but that she has important duties that she needs to see to.

“Okay,” Virevas agrees, readily. “Can I play with the jewellery?”

Thenvunin is initially relieved enough at the simplicity. The lack of tears. It makes him think of her sister’s nature, when she was this age. His tiny, pragmatic daughters. He readily agrees, and goes and gets the box of jewellery that is acceptable for Virevas. Uthvir is conscripted into the process of helping her determine which pieces go together the best, while Thenvunin is assigned the task of braiding her hair.

But two days after Lavellan says goodbye to her sister at the eluvian, with kisses and hugs and promises to send presents, Virevas askes Thenvunin when she will be coming back.

“She should be able to visit in a month,” Thenvunin says.

Virevas scrunches up her nose.

“How much is a month?” she asks.

Thenvunin blinks, and supposes Uthvir has not gone over this with her yet either. It has somehow been missed in the grand scheme of her education. He takes her over to the calendar in the garden, and carefully explains to her how many days are in a month, and shows her how it works. Virevas’ little brow furrows, and her mouth works as she ‘counts the sleeps’.

“No,” she decides. “No, that is too long! I want Lavellan to come back!”

“It will not be that long, little dearest,” Thenvunin soothes.

“No! It is too many sleeps! Make her come back!” Virevas demands, stomping her small foot. And no matter how Thenvunin tries, it seems, she just gets more and more upset with him and the situation at large. Her face flushes, and her eyes fill with tears, and she stomps her feet over and over again, and then pushes at him with her little hands, crying and making angry demands that have devolved into gibberish.

Uthvir comes home to find them like this, as Thenvunin himself gets increasingly worked up, at a loss for how to solve things. His assurances of letters and presents and a visit that would come sooner than it seems have all fallen flat.

“What is the matter?” Uthvir asks, and Virevas runs to them, sobbing and hysterical and primarily unintelligible.

“She wants Lavellan,” Thenvunin explains.

“Ah,” Uthvir says, scooping up their daughter. “Lavellan did this when she was your age once, you know, when Papa went away.”

Thenvunin’s heart stops.

What?

_What?_

He did not know that! No one told him that! Oh, no wonder Virevas is distraught. He is a terrible, negligent parent.

“Well, not this precisely,” Uthvir amends, as Virevas sniffles at them. “But she was very sad. I am certain she is very sad again, to be away from us. But would you want her to be crying like this about it?”

Virevas contemplates this.

“Yes,” she decides.

Uthvir chuckles.

“Well, at least do not take it out on poor Papa. He misses her just as much, you know,” his hunter says, brushing away a few tears.

“Can we go see the dwarves?” Virevas asks, burrowing against them, sniffling but settled.

Uthvir catches his eye, and nods at him to go and take a moment to recover, whilst they handle their youngest. Thenvunin lets out a breath, and feels a rush of guilty relief as he heads back inside. There are tear stains on his shirt and his hair is all in disarray, and he listens as Uthvir suggests that they go and read up about dwarves and see what they can discover, first, because research is a vital component of any hunt.

After a few minutes he hears Uthvir take Virevas into their study, and then leave her there for a bit. He is still in the process of putting on a new shirt when his hunter snakes their arms around him, and kisses his neck.

“She was crying and screaming and I could not get her to stop,” Thenvunin says.

“She has always been more dramatic,” Uthvir reminds him. “Come on. Let us go and convince her that she might prefer a trip to the city to subterranean explorations.”

“What would I do without you?” Thenvunin wonders.

“Wipe up her tears after she finished with them, of course,” Uthvir tells him, giving him a fond nip. “You are a good father.”

Sometimes, Thenvunin is not so sure.

~

When Virevas is seven, she decides she wants to get her hair cut and dyed to look more like her nanae’s. The matter is discussed between herself and Thenvunin as they make their way home from her music lessons. It tapers off, still in the theoretical stages, when Virevas asks if Lavellan and Grandma will be coming in time for her birthday. A question that has seen frequent use, as the date has drawn nearer and their relatives have failed to materialize.

“Of course they will be coming,” Thenvunin says. “A week before the day, just as I told you.”

“Grandma will probably bring me dresses. Do you think Lavellan will bring me gemstones?” Virevas wonders.

“I think it is more likely she will bring you books,” he admits, as his youngest toys with the three glittering necklaces she is already wearing. She scrunches up her nose in distaste.

“I hope she brings me gemstones. I am tired of _books._ All that time she spends in the mountains with the dwarves, you would think she might find a diamond or two.”

“You have plenty of diamonds already,” Thenvunin points out.

“Are _you_ giving me gemstones for my birthday?” Virevas asks, grinning. “I want new rings. And bracelets! And I need a pendant that goes down to here on my chest, I do not have one and I could layer more on if I did.” His child demonstrates the length on her person, her eyes sparkling eagerly. Of course, Thenvunin already knew what she wanted. It is possible there are several boxes stowed in the high shelves of his closet that will more than meet her requirements.

“You shall simply have to wait and see,” he insists.

~

Virevas is twelve when she announces that she is going to be a scout instead of an attendant, when she is old enough to take on duties. She tells this to Uthvir, while they are out practicing in the training yard, and Uthvir mentions it to him in an off-hand fashion as they make their way to dinner. Virevas herself is more interested in talking about how her nanae let her handle a real, proper knife, which makes Thenvunin frown a bit. Granted, Lavellan had been allowed to use knives in supervised practice when she was just nine, but he has learned that it does not do him much good to compare development between children. Virevas is more energetic than her sister was at this age, but not quite so… Thenvunin hesitates to put a word to it. Coordinated, perhaps? Sharp, maybe. She is more like himself, and less like Uthvir, he supposes.

“And how did you do with the knife?” he asks, glancing at Uthvir. His hunter catches his eye, and tilts their head reassuringly. They were present and watchful, that look says, which Thenvunin would expect. But even so. Even so, he worries.

“I did very well!” Virevas says.

“You did. But you will have to practice more before I let you use it again,” Uthvir decides. “You dropped it twice.”

“Only because it was heavy. Can I get a lighter one? But just as sharp?” Virevas asks, and Thenvunin wonders if he might not be premature in supposing she takes after him. It is so hard to tell with her, though. He supposes they ensured it themselves when they gave her that name. She is like the wind, he thinks. Like a bright, happy, noisy summer wind, blowing all her family’s feathers to and fro as she dashes about and experiments with things and learns and grows.

“We will see,” Uthvir says.

“That means you will ask Papa, and Papa will say no,” Virevas decides, pouting.

Thenvunin falters, just a bit, and Uthvir raises an eyebrow at her.

“Indeed? Well, since you have foreseen the outcome so absolutely, I suppose the answer is no, then,” his hunter tells her.

“No, no, that was not what I meant!” Virevas protests. She turns her round eyes towards him, grasping his arm, beseeching with her gaze. “I am sorry, Papa, it was only a joke. You are not mad at me for a joke, are you? You will let me have a knife, won’t you?”

Thenvunin wavers. He is very bad at denying her, he knows. She looks at him as if the whole world might break apart if he should say ‘no’, peering up at him from a face so like Uthvir’s, sometimes. But he manages, this time. Her safety is on the line.

“It is dangerous to handle weapons you are not ready for. If you want to have a knife of your own, then you had best keep practicing,” he decides. “You have only just really started, after all.”

Virevas’ pout intensifies, and she lets go of him to fold her arms; scowling at the flagstones, now, as her sunshine-yellow coat flutters out behind her.

“How old was Lavellan when _she_ got her first proper knife?” his daughter asks.

“Lavellan started combat training when she was six,” Uthvir says. “You chose dance lessons instead. And then you wished to learn the flute and the harp, both when you were nine. It is not about age. It is about experience.”

“So she was younger than me, then,” Virevas grumbles.

“And she still does not know how to play the flute at all,” Uthvir replies. Which does bring some of the complaining to a halt. Though, Thenvunin frets. He finds himself at a loss when his younger daughter seems jealous of her older sister, or tries in some way to compete with her. Is he doing a poor job, he wonders? Does she not know how much they all love her, and just want her to be safe, and happy, and go at her own pace? There is no rush, he thinks. No hurry to grow up. Even when she is twenty-five, there will still be plenty to learn.

“I hate the flute,” his daughter decides.

Thenvunin’s heart works itself into knots.

~

The next time Lavellan visits, it is for the summer festival, with plans to stay over Virevas’ thirteenth birthday. The evening is full of excitement as she comes home, with presents locked away in a trunk, and hugs and enthusiasm and Thenvunin’s heart soaring at being able to hold both of his daughters and Uthvir at once.

In the morning, Virevas emerges from their room and strolls into the parlour, where they are all planning to have a quiet breakfast together.

“Morning, little sister,” Lavellan says. “Did you sleep well?”

“No,” Virevas says, as Thenvunin greets her. Uthvir has been up since dawn, and went off to go and check for their messages from the city – as well as any early-arriving gifts for Virevas’ birthday – and is not quite back yet. His youngest daughter flops down onto the sofa beside him, holding the brush for her hair. Thenvunin obligingly sets about seeing to the long curtain of golden locks, all tangled up like a disgruntled bird.

“Why did you not sleep well?” he wonders.

“I had such boring dreams,” Virevas complains. “I dreamed I was just walking about the palace, trying to find things in the fountains. But I could not find any of them, and it was annoying, and nothing interesting happened. And only a few of the spirits came and talked to me, and none of them could tell what I was looking for either. Curiosity says the Dreaming looks different from different places. Do you think my dreams would be more interesting if we went somewhere else?”

“Possibly,” Thenvunin concedes.

“Then we should got to the village and stay with Lavellan, after my birthday,” his youngest decides.

He frowns, just a bit, considering the idea. The village is remote. He is barely comfortable with having Lavellan there. And it will lack many of the amenities which Virevas is accustomed to, including her teachers, and a library, and reliably friendly spirits. She is still too young, he thinks, even for a short trip.

“Your nanae has patrols to do around the palace,” is what he says, though.

“So? Nanae can just head back to the palace to do their patrols, and then come to the village when it is over,” Virevas counters. “I want to go someplace interesting. It is so _dull_ here in the palace.”

Thenvunin sighs.

“You are so easily bored,” he muses, running the brush carefully through his son’s hair.

Virevas’ nose scrunches, in a fashion that usually means she feels insulted.

“Not that that is necessarily a bad thing. It is often a sign of a creative mind,” Thenvunin hastens to assure her.

“I _am_ very creative,” his youngest agrees.

“Nanae is not going to traverse the crossroads every day and night just so you can have slightly more interesting dreams,” Lavellan interjects. “Now, stop being silly, and come and have breakfast.”

Virevas scowls at her.

“I am not silly!” she objects.

“Of course not,” Thenvunin says, shooting his eldest an alarmed look. But Lavellan only reaches over and pats his shoulder. ‘Silly’ is not much of an insult, he knows. But Virevas has been bristling over every perceived slight or criticism, of late.

“You are, in fact,” Lavellan maintains, to her sister.

Virevas glowers at her.

“Well if I am silly then _you_ were spoiled,” she says. “And now you think you can just do and say and be anything you like at all, even though you are only mid-ranking. And you are probably going to _stay_ mid-ranking, just like Nanae, because you are both so mean that no one likes you.”

“Virevas!” Thenvunin exclaims, his heart sinking into his stomach.

Lavellan only looks amused, but that does not help his growing sense of dread.

“You just proved my point, if you think Nanae and I are mean just because we say ‘no’ to you the most often,” she counters.

“You _are_ mean!” Virevas insists, rising from the couch so swiftly that the brush is pulled from Thenvunin’s hands. She winces, and scowls, and pulls it from her hair. Then glares at Lavellan as if she is to blame for the mishap, even as Thenvunin rises to try and calm things. “Everyone is mean and awful me in this family! And you are the worst. You are mean and awful and _ugly!”_

“Mmhmm,” Lavellan says, not nearly so bothered by the words as Thenvunin is.

“Virevas!” he nevertheless exclaims again. “Calm down this instant! Your sister came all this way to visit you. There is no excuse for saying such things! The both of you will apologize to one another immediately.”

His youngest looks at him as if betrayed.

“She did not come to visit me. She came for the festival, she never comes to visit _me_ ,” she insists.

Lavellan folds her arms and lets out a soft curse under her breath.

“No, ‘Vas, that is not true,” she says, the only person left on the room who does not seem to be on the verge of being beside themselves. “I came to visit you because I love you. Even when you are being a brat.”

“Lavellan!” Thenvunin protests.

Virevas picks up her hair brush and throws it at her older sister.

Much to Thenvunin’s relief, Lavellan catches it before it can smack her in the face.

That just seems to make her sister even more incensed, though.

“You should not even be in this family! You should have been left in the woods to get eaten by wild animals!” Virevas insists.

Thenvunin’s heart _lurches_ and the sudden shock and horror of that comments floods out of him, and a moment later his youngest wilts and looks at him with guilt rushing clean out of her. He raises a hand to his mouth, and his eyes are wide, wide saucers, and he glances back at Lavellan, whose own aura is tinged with a far fainter – but still present – note of hurt.

“You do not _ever_ say that again!” Thenvunin insists, aghast. His tone is brittle and sharp in a way it rarely ever is when addressing his children.

“I…” Virevas replies, hesitating a moment, before her expression begins to crumple. But then her lips purse, and a moment later she storms back towards her rooms. Thenvunin’s calls for her to return, to sort this out, fall on deaf ears. His youngest marches back into the hallway and slams her bedroom door behind her.

Lavellan stands, arms still folded, and watches her go.

“She did not mean that,” Thenvunin tells her.

At length, she lets out a breath.

“I know,” she says. “She is learning how to hit below the belt more quickly than she is learning how to hold back.”

“That was an awful thing to say, and I will be speaking to her at length about it. But you know she has been sensitive lately. You should not have called her a brat,” he reasons. Lavellan is, after all, much older than her sister. He expects better of her than to fling insults around.

“She is getting older, Papa. The tantrums and selfish demands do not look so cute on teenagers as they do on little children. They will be even less endearing on a grown adult,” she says, though she does seem just a bit abashed. “I could have handled that better. But even so. She might need to strike a few blows she regrets before she realizes why she needs to be more careful. I would rather she directed them my way than anywhere else, to be honest.”

“You are hardly an appropriate target,” Thenvunin insists. “Besides which, there is no great crisis over it. Selfishness is not that uncommon among children. And she will only be a child for such a little while. Is it really so hard to just let her enjoy it?”

“It may be brief, but childhood defines a great deal about a person,” his daughter counters.

He shakes his head, just a little. This is not a new argument, and truthfully, he is sometimes at a loss when it comes to this subject.  He would never say it out loud – would rather cut out his own tongue than let his younger daughter hear the words from him – but there are times when he wonders why Virevas is not more like her sister. Why it is so different for her. Lavellan seemed to come by discipline and restraint innately, but Virevas almost never seems to hold back of her own accord. It is not even a trait he can attribute to her taking after himself in, or Uthvir. _All_ of them can muster up restraint.

“I will go and talk with her,” Thenvunin decides.

“Later,” Lavellan requests. “Let me go, first.”

He hesitates. But after a moment, he nods in agreement, and watches as his eldest daughter heads towards the hall, and knocks on her sister’s door. There is a terse response, and then a pause, and then he hears the door open, and she slips inside.

Alone, he moves to check on the breakfast spread. His mind slips back to his youngest’s awful comment.

It is not that Virevas lacks compassion, and so he must suppose that Lavellan is right. The problem is a lack of restraint. Perhaps she has not learned it simply because the rest of them come by it naturally, and up until this point, no one has actually attempted to _teach_ her what they all – unfairly – expect her to know innately.

He purses his lips, and considers their options.

~

It is in the midst of one of their etiquette lessons that the subject is raised, somewhat, again. Thenvunin had expected antsy impatience from his child today, given that Uthvir had promised to take her hunting this evening. But instead she is quiet this morning. Lavellan went back to her outpost a few days ago, and for a while her sister has been introspective and a bit moody.

Not that is inexplicable. The growth spurts certainly do not help. Virevas has spent the past few months shooting up like a sapling, eating hearty meals and sleeping a great deal as her body seems to push itself towards some lofty goal. Thenvunin’s youngest has nearly outstripped her sister, and seems set to shoot up past her nanae and closer towards Thenvunin’s own height, at this rate. Her face is still mostly Uthvir, though. And her hair is a few shades richer in colour than his, and nearly a match of the golden skin that Uthvir gave her, and Thenvunin has already found himself bristling at some of the assessing she receive from those he _knows_ are imagining what a beauty she will make when she is mature.

He will not have anyone hanging around his child, _waiting_ for her to be of an age to pursue.  Like depraved vultures, circling his tiny baby. Absolutely not. He has been making a list, along with Uthvir, and if anyone on that list should try anything in the next several hundred years, well.

They will not get far at it.

He is, perhaps, thinking some dire thoughts towards a few specific individuals he has noticed in the, and so is a bit distracted from his child’s own continued thoughtfulness, until Virevas speaks again.

“Papa,” she says, and draw his gaze up from an outline he had been checking.

“Yes, little heart?” he replies, still somewhat distracted.

“Do you think I am fickle? Or mean?”

Thenvunin pauses, caught up by the oddness of Virevas’ tone. It is fairly common for him to hear his youngest sound impatient, offended, or beseeching on the topic of any perceived flaws. But right now, she sounds… worried, more than anything. Concerned, and perhaps just the slightest bit lost.

“Of course not,” he says. But the reassurance does not seem to actually reassure, as Virevas frowns at him a bit uncertainly, and looks down at her hands.

He moves closer, running a hand over her hair.

“Who called you such things?” he wonders, frowning.

“It was just something I overheard,” Virevas says. Uncommon enough again; Thenvunin’s youngest rarely hesitates to point the finger at culprits who offend her, even inadvertently or by way of implication. “Someone said that… Dreaming-born are normally ‘fickle’ about who they are, because spirits can change certain things about themselves so easily.”

“You are not fickle about yourself,” Thenvunin asserts. “You are growing up. That means things change more quickly for you than for most people.”

Virevas nods, but then sighs.

“But what if they do not stop changing?” she wonders. “I think… what if I am always changing, even after I have my markings? What if I can never make up my mind about who I am?”

Thenvunin considers this, and sinks down to sit beside his daughter. He thinks of all the long years he spent being more or less unchanging, and more or less miserable with it. Too stuck in his ways to even admit to himself that he was unhappy. He thinks of the man he is now and the man he used to be, and he does not suppose he has any regrets, given the life he has somehow lucked into. But perhaps it would have been nice to be able to get here more easily. To have been more open to change, and been able to seize it more readily.

“I think you are marvelous,” Thenvunin says, and leans over to kiss his child’s forehead. “Before your nanae and sister came along, I lived almost every day of my life the same way. I was lonely, and bitter, and frightened. Far too frightened to easily change. When your nanae was pregnant with you, they were so scared of how different it all was for them that they hid themselves in our chambers for months. If you are good at changing, my little heart, if you are good at discovering new things, and being true to yourself, even when it is not consistent, then I am very glad. Because it means you feel safe enough to know that you can be whoever you wish to be, and that you are brave enough and bold enough to define your own path.”

Virevas’ eyes get a bit wet, and she swallows.

“Nanae _hid?”_ she asks.

“Do not tell them I told you that,” Thenvunin requests. “But, yes. They hid quite a lot, in a good many ways. And when your sister was little, she would get overwhelmed by things sometimes. Things you yourself would run straight up to when you were the same age. Fountains and sculptures and glittering light displays. When she was just small, she would hide behind my legs or Uthvir’s every time we went into a new part of the city. And when I was your age, I never went to the city at all. The only thing I knew about myself was that I was not good enough. We all had to be brave in order to change ourselves enough to stop hiding. But you, my dearest, know yourself well enough to accept your changes as they come. That is not fickle. That is honest.”

Virevas looks at him.

And then bursts into tears.

Thenvunin reaches for her, fretting over her distress and wondering if he had said the wrong thing. Perhaps he should have halted the discussion and let Uthvir handle things. At least they are an accomplished enough shape-shifter to have a better frame of reference for changing things about themselves, he thinks. He has never been much good at it.

But after a few moments he realizes that the air around his daughter is conveying more relief than anything else.

“Is it always so frightening to grow up?” Virevas wonders, when she has finally finished crying enough to speak again.

“Yes,” Thenvunin says. “But you can always come to us. Even when you are many thousands of years old, you can still need help. And that is alright. We all will love you and do whatever we can.”

That starts her crying all over again.

But Thenvunin is ready for it, that time.


	15. Traded to Andruil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt wondering what would have happened if everyone had ended up serving Andruil instead of Mythal.

Andruil does love her mother.

There are times when she would happily flay her alive. Tear out her throat, rend her limb from limb, take the choice cuts and roast them on an open flame. Eat her bloodied heart whole. But she would feel badly out it, afterwards. When the moment had passed, the taste of that victory would turn sour, she knows.

Because, when it comes right down to it, there is Mythal, who is ruler and predator and queen, and there is _Mama_ , who used to carry Andruil in woven slings against her breast, and taught her to read and write, to hold a blade, to gut a fish, to gut an elf. Mama who smells like flowers, and loves Andruil as few other people ever would or could in this life.

Andruil does love her. The way she loves herself. They are bound into the same fabric of the world.

She thinks of this, as she often does, as she dines with Mythal in her Arlathan holdings. In the private chamber just off one of the gardens, where creeping vines trail up bright, white walls, and the sunlight is dappled through a veil of golden leaves.

Gold.

Such a lovely colour.

“Let the child stay in my halls,” Mythal asks her. “It is a better place for children anyway.”

“Many children have been raised in my halls,” Andruil counters. And many have. Little hunters, tottering on little legs. Cute things. Vulnerable, of course, but then, most things are when compared to Andruil. No sport in hurting them. It is too easy to manage, and anyway, they are more fun once they have finished growing up.

Especially when they are still young. Still on the cusp of things. So malleable and bewildered by so much of the world.

“I did not mean to imply that your hunters are inept at childrearing,” Mythal tells her, lifting her glass to drink.

“No?” Andruil wonders. “I cannot fathom what else you might have been implying.”

Her mother clucks her tongue at her.

“That gardens are where things are best grown. Especially when they are small,” she says, reasonably. “My Thenvunin has taken a liking to the girl. To be honest, so have I. It has been too long since the patter of tiny feet has filled the palace halls.”

“If you are so nostalgic for it, why not arrange to let some of your other followers have children?” Andruil wonders.

Mythal sighs.

“Because I am always nostalgic for it, my darling. But it is not always prudent or wise. However, chance has presented this opportunity. Let me beg it from it you. When she is older she will be interesting enough, but you and I both know that the appeal of children is minimal to you,” her mother reasons. And it is true. She is not wrong. Andruil does not much care for what happens to the infant right now, as it is small and needy and exists largely in terms of potential.

Another day, she thinks, and this would work. Another whim, and she would ask some favour from her mother, and relish the thought of her pretty pet imagining that they could outwit her. It will only make it that much sweeter, to disabuse them of that notion a few decades down the line.

But the wind changes, and today, she thinks, she is not willing to give them that much leash.

Today, she thinks, there is another opportunity to play with them. There is a way in which they have shown their hand, and she might pluck a few more cards from their pretty, sharp-edged fingers.

“The truth is, Mother, that I have also missed the patter of little feet,” Andruil admits. “And I have been considering the many ways in which that whim might be filled.”

Mythal pauses.

As she always does, when the prospect of grandchildren arises. There is just the briefest spark of longing in her for it. And the cool detachment, as well. The builder of empires seeing where the balance of power might be upset; even as the self-proclaimed mother of the people wishes for the indulgence of it.

Andruil did not spend her formative years at her mother’s side and learn nothing of manipulation, after all.

“Then it is fortunate that fate has graced you with a more… convenient outlet than most,” Mythal agrees, at length.

“Oh, indeed,” Andruil confirms. “Though, I must say, I can sympathize with your Thenvunin. She is such a darling child. And by all accounts he has accepted parental rights over her eagerly. And you know, I have seen him. He is quite lovely. He and my Uthvir, and that little child – such a beautiful family set. I would hate to break it up. I really would.”

Her mother narrows her eyes.

“Andruil,” she says, in that tone of voice that leaves no doubt that she knows her daughter is up to mischief. Once upon a time, stealing extra sweets, and breaking Papa’s blown glass sculptures, and sneaking off into forbidden rooms.

And now… well.

Now she is a grown-up, and she makes grown-up mischief.

“What do you want for him?” she asks. “Your pretty floral knight.”

Mythal regards her for a moment, assessing. She takes another long sip of her drink.

“I have precious few warriors who can compete in your games, as it happens. Thenvunin provides a rare set of skills to my ranks. He has given me three thousand years of loyal service, and I am quite fond of him. I would not lightly trade that away,” she declares.

Well. Andruil knew the price would be high. She debates internally for a moment. Is it worth it? She is going to have to part with some dear things to sway her mother.

But then too. What is life without its pleasures? How much entertainment have such other assets brought her of late?

“That little parcel of land I own, in the mountains. The three villages,” Andruil says, and she knows by the look in her mother’s eye that she was not expecting so substantial an offer, so quickly. “Maintaining my presence there has become a chore. But I am certain some of the younger elves among that populace will serve you well. Give them a few decades, and the skills they have learned from my hunters will have them competing well enough to soothe the absence of your knight.”

“You are offering me three villages for Thenvunin?” Mythal says, in the neutral tones of a merchant checking the accuracy of a receipt. Her disbelief would not be apparent to anyone unfamiliar with her. But Andruil knows better.

“Think of how flattered he will be to learn his worth,” she says, and with the next sip from her own goblet, privately toasts her victory.

~

Her pet tries so very hard to pretend as if she has not caught them.

She lets them get all through that first banquet, trying to win her over to the notion the Thenvunin should hold a high rank, that perhaps a city posting would be best, and when that clearly is not gaining the immediate tractions they seek, that she should possibly consider what Sylaise might offer her for someone of Thenvunin’s considerable beauty. They do a very good job of it. By the end of the meal, she is _almost_ convinced that they do not care one whit for Thenvunin, that she has made a very poor trade, that he is barely more than useless to her, but that she could make him an _exceedingly_ appealing prospect to her sister.

Almost.

But every time their gaze darts to Thenvunin, sitting there, helping that little toddler eat. Cutting up her food for her and trying not to brush a hand too firmly over his new markings. Oh, there is just that pale tremor of attachment in them.

It makes her furious and delighted in one. That they thought they could reach beyond her. That they gave anything of themselves over to someone else, someone outside her control, when they _know_ that she owns every single part of them. That makes her furious.

But that she has caught them out. That she has countered their efforts?

That nearly pleases her enough to make up for it.

“I believe I will need to do a proper assessment of my new acquisition,” Andruil decides. “To determine just where he will fit in with all the rest of us.” So saying, and without further ado, she stands. She catches Thenvunin’s eye, and crooks her finger towards him.

The former servant of Mythal glances at Uthvir. Just for a moment. Uncertain. Uthvir stares back at him, and does not offer him anything, of course. How could they? It all belongs to Andruil. The child is quiet, looking between everyone as she is handed from ‘papa’ to ‘nanae’, and Andruil sweeps from the hall. Not bothering to give Thenvunin so much as a grace period.

And why should she?

Uthvir is hers. That they test the limits of that is part of their nature. If they were so dull as to behave themselves, she would lose interest in them in short order. She can forgive them, when it comes to it. She already has. Oh, she will take punishment from them. Carve it out of them. But in the end, she adores them. Her lovely little pet.

Thenvunin, though.

Thenvunin presumed to try and own a piece of something which belongs solely to her.

Now that _he_ belongs to her, it is all the same. But he will have to learn that. And he will have to be punished for his presumptions. Past transgressions.

Discipline ought not be neglected.

“My lady,” Thenvunin begins, uncertainly.

She backhands him into the wall, for starters. She does not hold back much. The _smack_ he makes when he collides with the surface is intensely satisfying. The blood at the corner of his mouth looks pretty, but it is the fear in his eyes that she relishes most, when he looks up towards her and stalls. The hunted look of prey pressed into its corner. Nowhere to go. No one to stop her.

“I gave up three villages for you,” she tells him. “How are you going to begin repaying me for that?”

“However… however I might, my lady,” Thenvunin replies, haltingly. “How might I please you?”

Oh, Uthvir told him to say that, she would wager anything. And it was a good piece of advice.  It makes her want to purr, having him submit at her feet. On a good day, she would go gently with him. On a good day, she might only take an evening from him. Might leave him enough so that he will be able to walk from her chambers. Might, if nothing else, ease him into his new situation.

But it is not a good day.

With a cold smile, she reaches down, and drags Thenvunin across the room by his hair.

~

Three days of it, and she feels delightfully satisfied with herself. It had been too long, really, since she had been unyielding with someone. Too long since she had enjoyed a proper round of discipline. Of merciless domination. She is languid and easy as she leaves the chambers, and sends in the healers and cleaners.

Thenvunin has survived.

That pleases her too, as it happens. Not that _he_ was much pleasing. Oh, he had tried, she suspects, but the rumours held true. She had had to use some very _direct_ methods to get him screaming. And he had mostly just flopped around, and broken fairly quickly. Disappointing sport. But the scenario was inherently pleasing enough itself, and being able to keep on using him is convenient. She smiles at Uthvir as they move to follow the healers in.

“Uthvir,” she calls. “Do come with me.”

They hesitate.

She glances back, and realizes it is entirely possible to see the blood from the doorway.

“Come with me,” she reiterates, a little more sharply.

They swallow, throat bobbing, and then fall into step alongside of her. Head deferentially bowed. She reaches over and squeezes the back of their neck in approval, before dropping her hand back to her side.

“I feel like hunting this morning. I have been cooped up with those assessments for too long.”

She stretches her neck.

Uthvir betrays nothing.

“Of course,” they say, tone neutral and detached. “I shall make the arrangements.”

“I want you to come with me,” she clarifies.

“I must look after my daughter,” they say, and then just the barest hint of resentment slips into their tone. Because of course it does. They thought that they could outwit her, and she has turned it all over on them. Thenvunin will certainly resent them now, for being the cause of his suffering. And they know, too, that any fantasies they had indulged of slipping their child beyond her reach have been thoroughly dashed.

“You must resent me so for burdening you with her,” Andruil says, sighing.

“No, my lady, I do not,” they insist, immediately.

“I cannot conceive of why else you tried to give her over to the care of that silly creature,” she carries on. What to have for breakfast? She is famished, but she will catch this meal herself, she thinks. Something large. Large and lovely. A bird, she thinks. A large, plump, lovely bird. There are some geese that flock to one of the hunting grounds. That should serve.

“I had thought that if I had someone else to help me mind her, I could be more attentive to you,” Uthvir says. “It was most courteous of you to bring Thenvunin here. That makes it all the more convenient.”

“Does it not? Though I do wonder why you even selected him to begin with. As I recall, there was a whole host of candidates in the tournament simply chomping at the bit for the chance to raise that child,” Andruil says, glancing reproachfully at them.

“I had heard that gardens were good places to grow things,” Uthvir says, quietly.

She pauses, and reaches over, and runs her fingers through their hair.

“You are not cultivating some delicate, decorative flower, to be placed alongside some statuary. You are raising a subject for my hunting grounds,” she replies, and lets the implication lie, that there is always more than one subject of a hunt. There is the hunter, and there is the prey. And a child could grow to be either.

Uthvir meets her gaze.

“Of course, my lady.”

She nods, satisfied that they understand one another.

As it should be.

“Find someone else to watch the child,” she commands.

They nod in acknowledgement, and bow low, before turning and heading in the direction of their chambers. She stops, and watches them go, to make certain they do not veer off on any other paths. Such as the vicinity of her chambers. But they are too smart for that, of course.

 _Good pet,_ she thinks.

They will not forget to whom they belong any time soon.

~

She appoints Thenvunin to the rank of servant.

“It seems fitting for someone whose primary use is babysitting,” she reasons, over dinner. “And considering he has not been very productive even at that these past few days.”

Of course, likely that is because he is still recovering. The healers had seemed quite impressed with his survival. Tenacious, they called him. Lucky, she would refute. But she does prefer her assets to have _some_ usefulness; and Thenvunin’s talents obviously do not lie in the bedroom.

“On the contrary, he has spent most of the past several days almost entirely with Lavellan,” Uthvir tells her, from their place at her side.

“And yet, you have been awfully scarce yourself,” she notes.

“Forgive me, my lady. But she is a child, and I am responsible for her. I would not have you thinking I am ungrateful for my prize,” they reply. “It is only that Thenvunin is still… adjusting. But he has always placed highly in our tournaments. He is an accomplished warrior.”

“And an accomplished fainter,” she counters. A few of her hunters chuckle at that, and she grins, too. “Oh, you undersold his disappointing nature in the bedroom, pet. You should have seen it. It was a monument to ineptitude. He cried, He fainted. He made a terrible mess of himself.”

The hunters laugh further.

“That is the problem with these delicate sorts, my lady,” one of her attendants offers. “No stamina.”

“None at all,” she agrees.

“Was there any merit to it?” another wonders.

She shrugs.

“Well, I suppose you could try him yourself, come to it. Babysitting is not much of a duty, as it happens. And we do have a responsibility to help the man improve his failings.” Grinning, she looks over at Uthvir, who is taking a long drink from their goblet. She runs a hand down their back. “As I recall, adding those duties to your own list early on had _you_ improving by leaps and bounds.”

Her pet stiffens as she yanks that particular leash.

Oh, this is such fun.

She should have figured out what they were doing with Thenvunin _years_ ago.

“I would rather not have such requests going on where my daughter might overhear them,” Uthvir says, not quite managing their usual degree of ambivalence.

“Well, I understand that,” Andruil allows. And on that note, she looks out at her hunters. “Everyone must be exceptionally discreet, hmm? Do not go directly soliciting Thenvunin in front of his child. Make certain she is sufficiently distracted, and use a lot of euphemisms,” she requests.

There are quick acknowledgements and agreements to that, of course. No one wants to unsettle the little baby, after all. They are not _monsters._

“There we are,” she concludes.

There is a _tink._

Glancing over, she realizes that one of Uthvir’s nails has broken clean through their glass.

~

Incidents of injury and unspecified ‘disciplinary actions’ increase. She is almost surprised, really. She had known Uthvir was _attached_ , but she had not been certain to what extent. But as Thenvunin recovers enough to begin taking on duties, it so happens that the number of injuries which her hunters – particularly her higher-ranking hunters, with certain recognizable proclivities, and no real need to be ‘disciplined’ at all – incur, spike dramatically.

There are broken bones, torn muscles, slashes and especially neck injuries. The healers report a very pointed upswing in her hunters being mauled. Throats torn, kneecaps shattered, shoulders dislocated. Common enough incidents, but the sheer volume of them stacks up.

She wonders if her pet really thinks they can keep Thenvunin to themselves through sheer brute force alone.

It is amusing, but enough is enough, she decides.

She calls them up to sit with her for the evening meal again.

The whole little family goes still and silent. Thenvunin looks paler than he did when he arrived. Less fashionably dressed, of course, but there are dark circles under his eyes, as if he has not been sleeping well. And he does not speak unless spoken to, and even now cannot quite manage to look at her.

There is some distinct satisfaction in that.

But even the baby seems to know this is bad, as she abruptly breaks out into wailing protests as soon as Uthvir stands. They shush her, patting her head and gently pushing aside her reaching hands, but Andruil does not grant them permission to refuse her summons to tend the distraught child. In the end, Thenvunin carries her from the hall instead.

She has Uthvir serve her, and then proceed to her chambers. She lets them wait for a few hours before at last calling it an evening. Finds them obligingly waiting for her, unclad, standing still and silent in the warm light of her room. It looks so pleasant against their skin.

“You are being selfish,” she tells them, as she has them help her disrobe.

“Selfish, my lady?” they ask.

“You think I do not notice?” she wonders. “You want that little family of yours all to yourself.”

Uthvir hesitates. Their fingers are close to her neck. Long, sharp nails. She wonders if they are considering putting them through her throat. It pleases her, that they consider it sometimes. Pleases her that they do not even attempt to go through with it – that they never will – because even when they _want_ to, they know that she is stronger.

They know they would regret it, if they even could succeed.

“Yes,” they admit, to her surprise. She raises an eyebrow as they move before her, and drop to their knees. “Yes, I want to keep my family to myself. I want to keep them. Please, oh Andruil. I will do anything. I will give you anything. _Anything.”_

“That is the point, pet,” she says, and takes them by the throat. “You cannot give me anything, because I already own _everything._ Every part of you is mine. It is mine to keep, and mine to share, however I see fit. You are nothing. You have nothing that _I_ do not _permit_ you to have. You thought you could play your clever little game, that you could get around me. Well this is what happens when you forget to whom you belong. When you show me such ingratitude. When you are selfish, like you _keep being selfish._ Thenvunin is not yours, Uthvir. He is mine. And Lavellan is mine. And you are mine. Until the end of time.”

Their eyes meet hers, and she sees something deep and dark in them. Something she looks for, at times. Something that makes shivers run down her spine. That cold predator in there.

Her grip tightens.

It seems some further reminders are in order.

She lets them go, and plucks a knife up from the table.

~

The baby hates her.

Andruil stares at the small child, and thinks she has never seen such a seething little bundle of rage before in  her life. The baby sits on the floor of Uthvir’s chambers, surrounded by soft, colourful blocks, and stares up at Andruil, and by all appearances loathes her with every fibre of her being.

“And what did I ever do to you?” Andruil wonders. “As I recall, I saved your life by plucking you out of that forest.”

Toddlers, it seems, have terrible memories.

The baby continues to stare at her, and hate her, until Uthvir arrives, and Andruil dismisses the matter as odd but unimportant.

Children and their unpredictable moods.

~

Ten years later, it does seem a little more relevant that the child hates her.

In the end, that is about how long it takes for Uthvir and Thenvunin’s daughter to kill her.

And Lavellan, for one, does not hesitate. And does not regret it.


	16. TtA - Despair

When they can finally get away from Andruil, Uthvir heads straight to the healing rooms.

Lavellan is with one of the servants. She had been tense and unhappy the past few days, radiating worries that Uthvir had not been able to dispel; had, in truth, probably exacerbated with their own grim resignation. Each evening they had gone to listen at Andruil’s door. Waiting for her to let up. Wondering if they had gotten Thenvunin killed.

They are still wondering that, in truth, when they finally make it to the healing halls.

Thenvunin’s wounds have been closed, but he is exhausted. Sleeping. Uthvir watches him for a moment, before demanding all of the information from the healers. The full tally of injuries. The head healer is reluctant to relinquish it, but Uthvir has no patience for their dithering. They will know. They have to know, because otherwise they will need to get it out of Thenvunin himself, and that can be harder. Painful. Humiliating.

But they would know what has been done. What they have done to him.

It is… a long list.

Three days worth of Andruil. Of course it is.

Thenvunin is still sleeping by the time they finish going through it. Uthvir looks at his face a moment. Lets their eyes rove over the invisible injuries. The fresh, pink skin, that still forms the outline of marks on his neck, and face, and shoulders.

They reach out, and brush a few strands of hair off his forehead.

They did this to him. This is their fault.

Thenvunin lets out a breath. His eyelids flutter, and they withdraw their touch as he blinks his eyes open. They can see the moment when his mind catches up with him. When he withdraws from the healing sleep to the waking reality, and stiffens, fear suffusing the air around him with dizzying potency. Uthvir has to stop themselves from reacting poorly to it.

“It is alright,” they say, instead. “It is over.”

For now.

Thenvunin looks at them, and they are not certain what he will do. Curse them? Turn away? Beg them to send him home?

“Where is Lavellan?” he asks.

Of course.

“She is being looked after. She is safe,” Uthvir promises him, in the most calming, assured tone they can manage. “You are in the healing halls in Andruil’s palace. The worst of your injuries have been seen to. You have been given leave to recover, so for now, you are also safe.”

Thenvunin sucks in a shuddering breath, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they are shining, and he looks very pale.

“Is she still ours?” he asks. “Andruil said – she said she would take her away, afterwards. When she was done. She said she would take her back to the woods, and…”

“Shh,” Uthvir soothes, as their heart drops. “No, Thenvunin. It is alright. She was just saying that. Lavellan is still mine, and still yours, and still just a little baby. Not even Andruil hurts little babies. Your former lady would be on her doorstep if she did.”

“Can I see her?” Thenvunin asks, quietly.

Uthvir swallows.

“Of course,” they say. “My chambers are not far from here. You can come with me to them; the healers are accustomed to visiting them, when required.”

It takes some doing to get Thenvunin moving again. The wounds are healed but the aches remain, and his coordination is shot. Too much magic had to go into him. He’s unsteady on his feet, and still a little lost in the flow of dreamy thoughts. Fear smothers him, as Uthvir helps him down the corridor. No one happens upon them, which is a blessing; especially for anyone who might have been unlucky enough to, because Uthvir could really kill someone right now.

They lead him into their chambers, and into the room they have had made up for him. Soft fabrics, gentle lights, vibrant colours. Maybe not perfect, but décor is probably not high on even Thenvunin’s concerns right now. He can change it however he pleases, later. Uthvir gets him onto the bed, and then goes to the nursery. They send the servant off with their thanks, and collect Lavellan, who looks up at them with her wide, worried eyes.

“Want to see Papa?” they ask.

She gasps.

“Ya! Papa!” she readily agrees, craning to see down the hall behind them.

They carry her into Thenvunin’s room, and the reactions are immediate. Two visceral bursts of relief as they catch sight of one another. Uthvir lowers Lavellan to the bed, and Thenvunin moves to get her. But she is already clambering hastily up towards him, babbling in her funny, incoherent little baby-speak as she pats at him and looks at the pink marks on his skin, and pulls at his shirt to peer at his chest before he gathers her away from that, cooing soothingly at her, moving her so he can press kisses to her cheeks.

“My baby,” he breathes. “Papa missed you so much.”

“Lavlan sorry,” she says.

Uthvir starts, and so does Thenvunin. There are tears in her eyes as she clings to her papa.

“Lavlan sorry. All the sorry. Please. So sorry.”

She cries, and that gets Thenvunin crying too, of course, as he brushes a hand over her head and shushes her, and then cradles her against him.

“No, no. Who told you that you had to be sorry? My little heart, you did nothing wrong. Papa did not go away because of anything you did. It was not your fault.”

Lavellan just cries harder, though, hiccoughing and clinging to him, as he looks desperately up at Uthvir. And Uthvir can only shake their head, because they have no idea where she got this from. The servants? Overheard talk? Some strange set of childish assumptions? They do not know. _They_ certainly have not blamed her, nor given her any reason to blame herself.

They know quite fully who is responsible for all this.

But their throat feels thick, watching the baby cry, and watching Thenvunin cry, as they stand by helplessly and know that there is nothing they can do. Nothing they can do to keep them safe. To stop it from happening again. This was Andruil’s plan, and it has worked flawlessly. They played their cards straight into her hands. And all they can do now is attempt to mitigate the damage. Offer whatever protection they might, from those they can defeat. Give scant comforts and provide whatever advantages they are able to. Work to secure Thenvunin a decent rank, and decent duties.

Reparations, for his mistreatment. If he wishes to take them out of Uthvir’s own hide, they will let him. That comforts some. To hit another, where they have been hit. Uthvir has been struck by less deserving parties.

They think of this, as Lavellan and Thenvunin cry themselves to sleep.

They dare not take her from him. So they settle in, like a guard, falling into the chair by the door and staring at the two of them.

 _Mine,_ a dark voice growls in their chest.

But of course, nothing is theirs if they cannot defend it.

That, they suppose, was Andruil’s point.


	17. TtA - Day in the Life

Uthvir knows something is wrong when they come back from their latest hunt, and Thenvunin and Lavellan are not in the main courtyard of the palace.

They make themselves attend to their duties before they do anything. Sending the mounts back to the stables, and organizing distribution of the kills. Making a tribute, and conversing with several other high-ranking elves about the hunt. Letting Andruil boast, and delay them further, before she finally gets bored of it and takes off with one of the more interesting beasts she had slain; obviously planning to make something of it.

It has become routine, ordinarily, for Thenvunin to bring Lavellan out to the main courtyard while Uthvir is away on hunts. Not to be there to greet their return - Thenvunin does not relish the sight of Andruil, and Uthvir cannot blame him - but because the ample traffic means that there is usually someone of a decent rank around to take offence if Lavellan is disturbed. And Lavellan is a remarkably well-behaved child, unless someone is ‘distracting’ her papa from his duties to her. 

Just to be sure Uthvir checks the halla pen, and the garden behind it, before snagging one of the more loose-lipped servants and asking for their daughter. The servant informs them that she is likely in the kitchens, as that is where one of her infrequent minders took her after she got upset over Thenvunin ‘tending to other duties’.

“I see. And who was audacious enough to distract him from his foremost task?” Uthvir asks, already thinking it through. Who was on the hunt with them. Who would be bold enough to make a move in their absence. Was it…?

“Varlen, again,” the servant admits.

Uthvir is going to gut that elf one day.

They consider their options, and make their way towards their chambers, first. They could probably get Varlen into trouble if the room was in disarray, if she something too bold for a child’s eyes, but… Uthvir cannot do that to her. And anyway, the punishment for them might include Thenvunin, if Andruil deems them both to have been ‘irresponsible’ or ‘negligent’ in setting up precautions. They must find another way to deal with this hunter. Arrange for him to displease Andruil in some other venue.

When they reach their chambers, though, all is quiet. There is no sign of Varlen. Thenvunin’s room is empty, and for a moment they worry that Varlen had taken him to _his_  chambers, and Uthvir will go and drag him bodily off of their… off of Thenvunin, if it comes to it. But then they check the bath, and hear the distinctive sounds of water sloshing.

They consider, and then push the door open. Just the tiniest bit.

“Thenvunin?” they call.

The sloshing halts.

“…Do you have Lavellan?” Thenvunin asks, voice tremulous. “Do not… do not let her in.”

“She is in the kitchens, still,” Uthvir says. “May I come in?”

“…No. You should go and get her. She was upset,” Thenvunin tells them.

They hesitate. They cannot doubt that she would be, all things considered; but they also cannot say that Thenvunin’s state is not much worse. But he has said ‘no’, and all Uthvir can give him at the moment is someone who will respect that, then they shall. They have promised him that regardless of rank, regardless of circumstance, in these rooms, what he says will be respected. Even against their own concern for him.

“I will get Lavellan and then come check on your again. Is that alright?” they ask.

A pause.

“Yes,” Thenvunin agrees.

Gently, they close the door. They stare at it for a moment, locked in conflicting impulses, before they turn and head for the kitchens.

Lavellan is in one of the chairs in the corner, picking unenthusiastically at a small pie and being fussed over, when they arrive. As soon as she sees them she hops down onto her little legs, and rushes over. She is getting much bigger, now. Big enough to reach things more easily; big enough to pick up a knife, the last time someone bothered her papa, and threaten to gut them with it.

Andruil had been amused.

But she’s still small enough to fit into Uthvir’s arms as they sweep her up.

“Varlen took Papa!” she says, and not for the first time, Uthvir wonders how much she really does notice. Despite all their best efforts, she never seems as oblivious as anyone would like to what’s going on.

“I know. It is alright, Your papa is taking a bath by himself now,” they tell her.

Lavellan closes her eyes, and sags against their shoulder.

“Is he hurt?” she asks, quietly.

Uthvir kisses her head.

“He will be fine,” they say, which is as much as they can manage.

She is quiet as they carry her back to their chambers. It is funny, Uthvir thinks. If anyone takes Thenvunin away, she will demand to see him. Even Andruil is not above her attempts to defy instruction, to contradict other people’s word, to do whatever she can to keep her papa close. But as soon as no one else is involved, she becomes small and uncertain, until Thenvunin _asks_  for her. As if the only person who has a right to keep her from him is Thenvunin himself.

Uthvir wishes they could enforce that for her. It seems a much… fairer way of going about things.

But the world is not fair. It rarely even pretends to be.

As soon as they get back to their chambers, Lavellan goes and listens at the bathroom door for a moment. Uthvir does not worry that she will try and go in without permission, and indeed, she does not. She just listens, as if making certain that the occasional sounds of movement are acceptable, and then heads back down the hall.

“I am going to go make Papa a picture,” she decides.

“He will love that,” Uthvir assures her.

Lavellan nods, and looks near to tears for a moment. They reach for her, but she just smiles at them, and pats their hand, and then heads off to her room. Just as she said. 

When she has settled in, Uthvir makes their own way back to the bathroom. They ease the door open a crack, once again. Not enough to see anything. Just enough for their voice to be heard.

“I have her,” they say. “She is drawing a picture for you in her room. Do you need any help?”

There is another long pause, though that is not unusual. Sometimes Thenvunin takes a while to decide. A great deal of his bluster has deflated, and Uthvir is surprised at how much they miss it. How badly fear and helplessness have savaged it, in the wake of all these hurts.

“I could use some healing,” Thenvunin admits.

Their gut clenches.

“I will be there in a moment, then,” they promise.

Closing the door, they go and instruct Lavellan to stay put - she readily agrees, preoccupied with her current task, it seems - and then take off their armour. Divesting themselves until they are down to their softest layers, before heading back to the bathroom, and slipping in.

Thenvunin is in the small pool in the middle of the chamber. Soft blue light drifts in through the windows. His clothes are a pile in the corner, and his hair is loose, and the water is steaming. Uthvir tests it to find it just shy of scalding, and with a subtle gesture cools it a bit. Thenvunin does not look at them for a moment, focusing instead on one of the room’s bird-shaped tiles. His skin is flushed red from the bath, and there are bruises on him. Purple and dark around his neck. His lip is split, and his mouth is swollen. Uthvir suspects there are more, obscured by the water.

They settle at the edge, and reach over, keeping within his sight before they carefully brush away the bruises. Soothing his throat, and easing away the damage to his mouth. Thenvunin has been learning healing spells, when they can spare the time to teach him. But they have not had much time, come to it. And he will not trust anyone else to be alone with them for a lesson, and Uthvir cannot blame him.

They suspect he would not even trust _them_ , except that he has to.

He is quiet as they heal what they can see.

“Any more?” they ask.

Thenvunin hesitates.

That is telling enough, really.

“You do not have to say,” they assure him, and they keep their clothes on as they slip into the water, easing him just gently away from the side of the pool. They duck under to fix the rest of him, carefully examining him, cataloguing the injuries and restraining their fury, because they are not surprised but even so. Even so, they will not forget, either. They heal what they can find, until Thenvunin’s skin is pink and red but otherwise unblemished, carefully ignoring the erection he gets when it is said and done and they are brushing gentle hands over him.

They surface, afterwards.

“Anything I missed?” they ask.

Thenvunin shakes his head.

And then he shakes, just, all over. A great tremor that wracks through him, and makes Uthvir still. He raises his hands and drops his face into them, before biting out a curse and smacking a hand into the water.

“What is wrong with me?” he demands. “Why am I - why am I - what is _wrong_  with me?”

Uthvir stares at him. Golden hair flowing down to the surface of the water. Bruises and injuries healed without scars, but still with the imprints of their passage. Gone, but, that never means they did not happen to begin with. His emotions a chaotic mess, sour with self-loathing and frustration and confusion.

“Nothing,” they say. They feel hot themselves, but it is not an aroused heat. It is not the warmth from the bath. It is almost a fury, and yet, it is so far-removed from the man in front of them, so confused in all of its directions, that it feels like Uthvir is losing their grip. Their pulse thrums and their heart hammers, and they wonder that _this_  is what it looks like from the outside.

“Do you pity me?” Thenvunin asks. “Do you think I am laughable and pathetic?”

“No,” Uthvir says.

Thenvunin swallows, still not looking at them.

“Do you think I am…?”

He trails off. The light coming in through the windows shifts a bit, as the clouds move. The bathroom is, perhaps, the least claustrophobic chamber in Uthvir’s quarters, without feeling exposed. They have been trying to make that true for more rooms, but it has been a balancing act between how far they can extend themselves and how close they need to keep.

It is all an illusion, though. It is all Andruil’s, in the end. It is all a cage.

They reach out, slowly and deliberately, and when Thenvunin neither flinches nor stops them, nor makes any move away, they brush a hand across his cheek.

“You are not a spirit, Thenvunin. You do not shatter from your suffering. It may feel like it, but even if your will breaks, even if your body betrays you, even if they hurt and injure and defile you, you are still alive. Anything that is alive can heal, given enough time. And you will have that time. I swear it. Whatever happens now, one day, it will be the past. Until then, I only respect you for surviving it.”

Thenvunin looks at them.

They hold his gaze, steady and unpitying, because it is the truth. They have endured these things, too, and they know it is different. But even so. That is all the more reason for respect.

After a moment, Thenvunin lets out a long breath, and closes his eyes. He leans into their touch, just slightly. They brush his cheek a bit more, and then begin smoothing their fingers through his hair.  A few brief, murmured words, and they have him back against the side of the bath, as they go and retrieve a washing ladle and some soap, and help him finish bathing. Washing his back and his hair, drying and braiding the wet strands. 

They leave him leaning back, lingering in the soothing waters, to go and check on Lavellan.

She has finished her drawing, by then, and has moved on to one of her books.

“Is Papa recovering?” she asks, uncertainly.

“He is,” Uthvir confirms. “He should be out soon. Can I see what you drew for him?”

Nodding, Lavellan goes and retrieves her work. Thenvunin has been handling most of her arts instruction himself. They have both asked if she has an interest in learning a skill neither of them can teach, but so far, she has seemed content with the arrangement. 

She presents them with the fruit of her latest labours.

Uthvir stares at the picture, which appears to be a flock of enraged birds lighting fire to Andruil’s palace.

“I like this one,” they tell her. 

“I am starting a new series,” she replies. “I am going to call it Birds Destroy Elvhenan.”

“Ambitious.”

Their daughter looks up at them, and nods in agreement.


	18. TtA - Lavellan's Perspective

The ancient world is soaked in blood.

It is a trap, she thinks. Any scrap of beauty in it is a lie, an illusion. The only things that can really be _good_ in it are the people. And the good people, the kind people, are shredded in the claws of the selfish and sadistic.

The first few evenings back in Andruil’s palace, after the evanuris takes Thenvunin away, are horrible. She has gathered enough – overheard enough conversation, assembled enough from innuendo and implication and rumours – to know that he is being mistreated. She tries to find Andruil’s chambers. Perhaps that’s dangerous, but there does seem to be some inherent protection to being a child in this world. Maybe, she thinks, she can interrupt it. Halt it.

The first night, she manages to escape the confines of her crib. She climbs over the side bars, and pads off towards the nursery door, which is ajar. She’s small and clumsy, but even so, she can handle opening a door. And then another, although she has to pull an end table over towards it to get it to open. Luckily the lock is from the inside of the room.

Outside Uthvir’s chambers, the light is dim, and the hallways are empty. She pauses, looking both ways, trying to figure out the likeliest direction. That way leads off to the dining halls, she remembers. One of her hands comes up to her mouth of its own accord, and she chews softly at her fingers in consideration. The other way, then? That might lead deeper into the palace housing, and then to Andruil’s chambers.

Seems as likely as anything.

She sets off, determined, but in the end she only makes it about halfway down the hall before something swoops down on her.

For a moment, she’s alarmed; until she catches sight of a familiar flash of red, and Uthvir pulls her up in their arms.

“What are you doing? How did you get out?” the hunter demands, a rare note of alarm in their voice.

Lavellan looks at them. They’ve been… strained ever since it came out that Mythal was trading Thenvunin to Andruil. She hadn’t been quite sure about them, at first. But she overheard them talking to Thenvunin about it. A lot. And she thinks that they’re scared, and lost, and hurt. That in the end they’re just another slave in this horrible system.

That they care, and that caring has gotten them into trouble.

She looks at them, still chewing on her fingers until they shift their grip on her, and gently coax her hand away from her mouth.

“You should be sleeping,” Uthvir says. “That is very important for your development.”

“Wan’ Papa,” Lavellan manages. And she does, really. She wants to find Thenvunin. Thenvunin, who is silly and kind and indulgent. Thenvunin, who adopted her so quickly and thoroughly it’s made her head spin. Thenvunin, who does his best to look after her. Who frets and worries and fusses and tries to shove her into ridiculous clothes.

The thought of him being hurt, because of her. Because of some game that some ancient evanuris is playing, with herself and Uthvir and him caught up as a pawn in it all, just makes everything so much worse. Makes her helplessness a thousand times more intolerable.

Her eyes itch.

Uthvir stares at her, and it’s pretty clear they’re at something of a loss. They hesitate, only moving to catch her hand when it starts gravitating back towards her mouth.

“Papa is… Papa is sleeping,” they finally say. “He is going to need a lot of rest for the next while. And you should be sleeping, too. Not wandering around here. It is not safe.”

“I help. Help Papa,” she insists. There has to be _something_ she can do. She can’t just leave him to… to be…

Uthvir sucks in a long breath, and then turns, and carries her back into their chambers.

“You cannot help him now,” they say.

No. No, of course she can’t help him. She can’t help anyone, in the end. They all die. They all suffer. And what can she do? What good is she? When her very presence just seems to open up the door to more miseries. Thenvunin should be safe in his gardens.

Andruil hadn’t even let him bring his birds.

Her face scrunches, and falls, and she bursts into tears. Uthvir pats her back uncertainly as she clings to them and cries. Cries and cries, in great gulping breaths that make her shudder, that wrack through the whole of her tiny form. She buries her head against the smooth plating on their shoulder, and doesn’t know what else to do.

“Shhh,” Uthvir says. “Shhh. It is alright. Everything is alright. Every….. everything…”

They trail off, trembling a bit as they hold her.

“I am sorry. I am sorry, little one. I will find a way. I promise. I will look after you. I will help your papa. Somehow.”

She curls her hands against them, and keeps on crying.

In the end, she spends that first night falling into exhausted sleep in Uthvir’s arms. She wakes back in her crib. The next night, her escape attempts are thwarted before she even gets out through the door. She makes a solid effort to slip away from one of the hunters watching her after breakfast, but they catch up with her well before she can make it to Andruil’s rooms.

“Papa!” she insists.

“Your papa is busy,” the hunter tells her, with a wry little chuckle that she likes not at all.

The third day she gets the closest to her goal. In the end it’s Banathim who catches her. The big bear hunter closes her teeth over the back of her shirt, and carts her back down through the corridors and hallways, until Uthvir finds them and scoops her into their arms again.

They hold her uncommonly tight.

“You cannot see Papa right now,” they tell her, firmly. And they look shaken by the prospect of her actually getting _that_ close to Andruil’s chambers.

Even so, Lavellan is becoming frantic. She’s started refusing to eat, in a burst of inspiration that has her hoping the danger to her health will produce Thenvunin before, she fears, it’s too late for him. Before whatever Andruil’s doing to him runs its course, and… and it has already been so long. It is no great effort to resist food, really. Her stomach is tied in countless knots all the same.

But it just seems to make Uthvir worry more, as they ply her with different kinds of food, and bottles, and hold her, and even plea with her.

“Papa will come back if you eat,” they tell her.

 _Bullshit,_ she thinks, because she’s not actually a toddler. But it’s not like she wants _Uthvir_ to suffer. And she suspects that if they could use her distress to actually accomplish what she hopes, they would have already tried. In front of the other hunters, they seem blithe and breezy. But when it’s just the two of them, the image cracks; and she can see how much this is hurting them, too.

She really fucking hates Andruil.

By the time Thenvunin finally returns, she’s relented enough to eat when Uthvir feeds her. But the rush of relief she feels as finally seeing the fussy elf again is tempered by the obvious evidence of what he’s suffered. She can spot all the telltale signs of intense healing magic used on him.

 _Everywhere_ on him.

Once she’s got him back, she refuses to budge from his side. He doesn’t seem to mind that, at least. Uthvir watches them for a long while, as they cry and she finds herself spilling out hopeless apologies and grief, trying to reassure herself that at least they fixed him afterwards, at least he’s _alive,_ but that’s definitely a hollow comfort. She doesn’t want to redirect his energy away from recovering and onto fussing over her again, but even so, he seems set upon comforting her. He cuddles her and soothes her and holds her close.

At some point he drifts off to sleep. At some point she does, too. The day passes in hazy moments of grief and relief and reassurance. Uthvir comes and checks on them. The hunter brings her food and helps Thenvunin feed her, and doesn’t mention her previous troubles with eating; though they do seem relieved when she settles into Thenvunin’s lap, and accepts the offered bottle and tiny bowl of food without complaint.

She spends the night in Thenvunin’s bed, tucked up against his chest. And most nights afterwards, it seems. A lot of times she’ll wake up from a restless sleep to find her papa watching her. Or she’ll drift off to the feel of a warm hand at her back, and his heart beating beneath her cheek. Sometimes Thenvunin will bury his face against her tummy, or rest his cheek atop her head, and tremble just a bit as he breathes in the scent of her.

She always lets him, as much as he needs to. If all she can offer to him is being a cuddly baby, then she will be the cuddliest damn baby who ever was.

The fourth night after he comes back, though, she wakes up in the middle of the night to a sense of panic so visceral, it makes her nauseous. It takes her several disoriented minutes to figure out that it’s _Thenvunin’s_ panic. To remember that this is how emotions work in this world. To even remember that she’s tiny, and in the past, and all of the details of what’s happened. It’s horribly disorienting, and in her reflex alarm she goes rigid and terrified.

“Oh no,” Thenvunin gasps. “Oh, no, baby, no, everything is alright. Papa… Papa just had a bad dream.”

His voice is rough and disoriented. It’s dark, and she can barely see him. He plucks her up and holds her to him, rocking and shaking, obviously trying to deal with the panic still sweeping through the air. It’s all she can do not to burst into tears, of all the useless things. Some slip through, despite her best efforts. Spilling in Thenvunin’s shirt as she curls her hands into it, and pats at him, and tries to help him calm down.

Her distress just seems to feed into his, though, and vice versa, and she’s at a loss for what to do until the door to the room slides open.

Thenvunin goes stiff and alarmed again, relaxing only marginally when Uthvir peers into the room.

The hunter regards them both for a moment.

“You… you should take her,” Thenvunin says, shakily. He makes to stand, but Uthvir is already heading over, and gestures at him to stay put.

“Alright,” they say, simply. She’s not sure if that’s what’s best, but then, she hasn’t been much help tonight. So she goes willingly enough when Uthvir takes her; albeit stuffing her fingers into her mouth again. She really needs to stop doing that. It’s barely better than sucking her damn thumb.

The hunter is quiet as they carry her out of Thenvunin’s room. They look at the nursery door for a moment, before turning and heading to their own room, instead, and depositing her in the small crib in there instead. They brush a hand over her head, and gently pry her fingers out of her mouth. Running them between their own, as they stare down at her a moment.

“Wait here while I look after Papa a bit, hmm?” they ask.

“Ya,” she agrees, readily. “Papa need help.”

“I will be right back,” Uthvir nevertheless promises.

They leave the door to their room open a crack. She listens to their footsteps, moving around the chambers. Swift and determined under they pass either by their own doorway or Thenvunin’s. Then they turn quiet, and careful. She hears the gentle murmur of voices. She’s exhausted again by then, strained by the emotions in the air, but she makes out the cadence of Uthvir’s voice. Calm. Of Thenvunin’s. Broken. Something about tea and sleep, and the morning, and herself.

She drifts off as Uthvir comes back into the room. Letting out an exhausted sigh as they trail a careful finger over her cheek.

The next morning they dress her, and feed her. At her insistence they take her to see Thenvunin, who is sleeping soundly in his bed. She toddles up to the side of his mattress, and peers at him. Noting the telltale signs of some kind of sleeping remedy. The rise and fall of his chest, and the pinched look on his face that persists, even in assisted sleep.

Uthvir waits for her by the doorway, until the chime sounds that means someone is requesting entrance. She looks over at them, and the both of them frown in the same fashion of troubling annoyance. Who is calling on them?

“Stay here,” Uthvir tells her, and pulls the door shut.

Lavellan regards Thenvunin for a moment. She pats gently at his hand, trying to reassure some subconscious sense of hers that is insisting upon his vulnerability, before moving over to the door and working to get it open. She wants to know what’s going on. If it’s Andruil, come to call Uthvir away, or some hunter or another come looking for a chance to ‘watch the baby’.

As soon as she gets the door open, she hears the sound of an only-vaguely familiar voice, raised high in irritation.

“If he is not watching the child, then he is available for other duties. Andruil pronounced him fit enough for it.”

“He is _sleeping,”_ Uthvir replies, sharp and impatient.

“From what I have heard, that will not make too much of a difference to his behavior,” the other hunter drawls, in a tone that makes her skin crawl. “I can just do what I like and go. He does not even need to wake up, come to it.”

Do what…?

A dark suspicion slinks through her. She makes her way quietly down the hall, pausing a bit as she hears a sudden yelp. Then a resounding _bang,_ the makes the walls shake just a bit. When she gets close enough to the entryway to actually see what’s going on, Uthvir has the offending visitor pinned to the wall by the back of their neck. Rivulets of blood are running down their collar, and they are struggling against a grip that seems strong as iron.

“You touch him, and I will break every single bone in your fucking body, you wretch,” Uthvir hisses. “You think I have forgotten how your _tastes_ run? You think I will happily let you inflict them upon someone who spends every day looking after my child? Presume to enter my chambers again, and it will be the _last_ presumption you ever make.”

“You would not dare,” the other hunter insists, though not very convincingly. Their fear is so thick in the air, she can feel it from the hall.

“You think I have not made people disappear before?” Uthvir asks, quietly. They lean in closer, and she can’t hear what they say, then. But whatever it is, it gets the offending hunter fleeing from their chambers as fast as they can manage. Leaving behind a trail of blood, as the air churns with terror and menace and other things that make her very aware of how small and vulnerable and inept she is right now. How little she can do to defend herself.

She’s caught up enough in that, that she doesn’t even think to move before Uthvir turns around, and sees her.

They come up short.

For a moment both of them waver uncertainly. Uthvir’s expression had been hard and fierce, but as they look it her it smooths out, drifting into more uncertain territory. They glance back at the blood which is still on the wall, and the floor, and their gauntlet.

“…Nanae?” she asks, the word slipping out, softer than her usual designation. She’s not even sure why she uses it, instead.

Uthvir lets out a long breath.

“You were not supposed to see that,” they say; though the recrimination in their tone seems largely directed towards themselves. Swiftly, they pull off their gauntlets, and leave them on the little table by the door, before striding over and kneeling down in front of her.

“Sorry,” she says.

The hunter regards her for a moment. They glance back at the front door, and then look at her, and reach over to put a hand on her head.

“Sometimes, I will hurt people,” they say. “Never you, though. No matter how frightening I am. You never have to be afraid of me.”

“Okay,” she agrees. “You, too. No be scared of Lavlan.”

They let out an amused huff.

“I will do my utmost to avoid quailing in terror,” Uthvir promises.

With a satisfied nod, she turns, and toddles back towards Thenvunin’s room. It’s probably making Uthvir uncomfortable to be hanging around in the front entryway while the blood is still everywhere. Not that it’s much different to be able to _see_ it, she thinks. And know it came from a deserving source.

The near-miss makes her even more protective of Thenvunin, though. She sets up camp in his room for the rest of the morning, ‘playing’ with some of the more interesting toys as she grapples with the realities of what seems to be going on. Thenvunin had been high-ranking among Mythal’s people. But Andruil’s have different… expectations. The elf at the door had spoken of ‘duties’.

She was already horrified. But things are looking to be even worse than she’d thought. Thenvunin’s a very handsome elf, and she knows from her own time that attractiveness can be a double-edged blade. But even so, vulnerability is the real problem.

Uthvir sets up at a small desk in the room. The door chime goes off a few more times as they quietly work and play and Thenvunin sleeps. After the first time, she finds herself unable to open the door to follow after them.

Thenvunin wakes up shortly before noon. She hears him rustling around and goes over to the bed, and only spares a moment to wonder if she might not be better off making herself scarce, and giving him some time to adjust. But when he blinks blearily at her, he just smiles, and reaches over to scoop her onto the bed and pepper her with kisses.

She tries to wrap her uncooperative mouth around the phrase for ‘good morning’, stumbling through it until Thenvunin manages a jaw-cracking yawn, and then helps her. Going through the individual sounds, breaking the phrase – which is considerable more convoluted in ancient elven than common, it must be said – into its base elements, until she manages it.

“Good job,” Uthvir praises.

Thenvunin glances blearily over at them. His expression shifts, uncertainly.

“Do I… have any duties waiting for me?” he asks.

“Really, Thenvunin. You are already in bed with your primary duty,” Uthvir says, settling back. “Lavellan is more than capable of taking up your time.”

…Huh.

Well. Yes. She supposes she can be.

Especially if it will _help._

“Ya. I do,” she agrees, which makes Thenvunin let out a shaky, but relieved laugh.

“Then I had best start taking better care of you, had I not?” he asks, though, which makes her frown. She pats carefully at his shoulder.

“Doo a good papa,” she assures him.

“Very good,” Uthvir agrees. “Andruil has assigned you poorly in terms of secondary tasks. I will see to it that you are appointed to more fitting stations, but in the meanwhile, just concern yourself with childcare. Leave the rest to me.”

Thenvunin smiles at her, but then hesitates a little. He glances towards the hunter.

“Uthvir, I…. about last night…”

Uthvir blinks, but before he can get anything out, they wave a hand dismissively.

“It is of no concern,” they reply.

She looks curiously at Thenvunin, who swallows.

“I would understand if… under the circumstances, perhaps I am a bad influence…”

At that, the hunter laughs outright.

“We are in Andruil’s halls, Thenvunin. Bad influences are abundant. You are, by far, the least of them. Especially where _our_ daughter is concerned,” they assure him.

Wait. Are they talking about _her?_ Thenvunin thinks his trauma is making him a bad influence on _her?_ She stares up at him, and intellectually, she knows he has no idea just why that is basically absurd. But even so. It really, really is.

Reaching up, she pats at his cheek.

“Denbunin a Papa. Uvir a Nanae,” she agrees, frowning at the jumbled words and wondering if that even made sense. Getting concepts in past her still-growing comprehension of the language’s nuances and the struggles of her articulation is challenging, sometimes.

It must work at least a little, though, because it makes Thenvunin smile at her.

That night she sleeps in her crib again. But the pattern breaks the next, when Andruil calls Uthvir up to her chambers once more; and Thenvunin takes her to his room, trying to distract her – and himself, it seems – from the knowledge of what is going on. He plays with her and shows her a little toy that seems designed to teach her letters, scrawling them elegantly across its rounded surface every time she bounces it, until the call at the chamber door chimes.

Thenvunin freezes.

So does she, for that matter.

Uthvir wouldn’t use the chime.

What if it’s the healers? What if something’s gone wrong? She looks at Thenvunin, who’s gone absolutely white. He glances at her, obviously uncertain of how to proceed. She can see it in his eye. Does he bring her with him? Leave her in the room? How should he answer?

“My do it,” she decides, patting his arm and toddling towards the door.

It’s probably too much to hope that he’ll let that stand.

And sure enough, she barely gets a few steps before he scoops her up.

“Do not be silly, my darling. I very much doubt it is for you,” he tells her, offering her a shaky smile and fighting to keep his emotions in check. In the end he carries her to the door with him, as he answers the call.

Two of mid-ranking hunters are behind it.

Lavellan recognizes them a bit more than the other one whom Uthvir had chased off. They are big, both of them, with hair that grows like fur, on their heads and on their forearms. Broad-shouldered and not precisely over-dressed. One of them looks at her and smiles.

“Hello, little one,” he greets.

She gives him a hard look.

She doesn’t like this.

“Thenvunin,” the other says. “Apologies for the late hour, but we checked with some of our usual bed partners and all of them are preoccupied. Spirits have been running high this evening, and we would like a third for…” she glances at her. “…Dancing. Grown-up dancing.”

Thenvunin goes still, and she feels a wash of dread roll through her. She’s not sure who it belongs to more.

“Uthvir is with Andruil. I have to watch the baby,” he tells the hunters, a little stiltedly.

“Oh, come now. It is nighttime,” the first hunter argues, pushing open the door. “Put her to bed and set an alarm. Little elves should be in their cradles at this hour anyway.”

“I…. she has not been sleeping well…” Thenvunin says, holding her tight and glancing towards the only other exit in the chambers – the door that leads out to a little back passage, and a stairwell that exits onto the palace roof. It would be too easy to get trapped there, though, she thinks.

“That is what the alarm is for,” the second hunter says. Lavellan grips Thenvunin back and glares as the pair push their way into the chambers, and shut the door behind them.

“No,” she says, firmly. “Go ‘way.”

The first hunter chuckles at her.

“Bossy little thing, is she not?”

Thenvunin stills, and his lips thin.

“I suspect your presence is upsetting her. This is disruptive to her routine,” he says.

The woman glances at her, and sighs. Then she looks back at Thenvunin. There is just the faintest edge of sympathy to her. It gives Lavellan a moment’s hope, before her next words manage to quash it completely.

“Look, we will be blunt, Thenvunin. You are going to have to do your duties. Andruil will not stand for it otherwise, and as she is currently making clear, Uthvir cannot be around you all hours of the day.”

Her companion inclines his head in agreement.

“Really, you can either _dance_ with us, and we will go gently as we can, or you can turn us away, and see how our lady takes it tomorrow,” he says. “I recommend you do not turn us away.”

Lavellan scowls at them both.

She wishes she was bigger. She wishes she had a blade and a shield. She wishes she could toss these two out, and grab Thenvunin, and Uthvir, and make a run for it. She wishes could do magic well enough to… to do something. She wishes she could figure out what’s inside of her. What Solas put there. She wishes she could master it, and use that power to save them.

“Please make yourselves comfortable. I will get her settled,” Thenvunin says, and ducks his head as he hurries her out of the entryway.

She grips his shirt with both hands as he takes her into the nursery.

“No,” she says. “Papa, no.”

“It is alright,” he croons at her. “It is alright, nothing bad is happening. Papa does not really feel like dancing with his friends, but sometimes grown-ups have to do things they do not wish to. That is part of… part of being an adult.” He pauses, and looks at her for a long moment, as she clutches him and looks back.

There is an odd look in his eye.

“Not that _you_ will ever have to do this, when you are grown up,” he says. His voice is very quiet, and she gets the impression that he’s just now realized that Lavellan won’t always be a child. That she won’t always have the bubble of ‘innocence’ to protect her.

She thinks he might be freaking out about it, a little.

Personally, though, she’s not too worried on that front. The sooner she can grow up, the sooner she can lift a blade again.

And she really, really wants to lift a blade.

And a torch.

And maybe just burn this entire civilization to the ground.

Thenvunin closes his eyes, and lets out a long breath. It cracks. He shakes his head.

“No. No, you will not. But Papa has to, tonight. So, you do me a big, huge favour, and be very good, alright? You stay in your crib, and go right to sleep. Have beautiful dreams, and when you wake up, Papa and Nanae will take you to see the halla. And that will be very nice, will it not?”

She stares at him.

What does she do?

She cannot possibly just let him do this. But if she cries and clings and throws a fit, those hunters will go back and tell Andruil that he’s not doing his ‘job’, and then what will happen? Will Andruil take him again? Will he survive, this time? She can’t stop them. They’re going to hurt him, they’re going to _rape_ him, _again,_ and she can’t stop them.

She can’t stop anything.

She lets go, and Thenvunin kisses her head and tucks her in. His hand shaking just the tiniest bit, his kiss lingering just a little overlong. He hums at her and waits until she closes her eyes, before he turns down the lights, and shuts the door fully behind him.

When he’s gone, she curls into a ball, and weeps.

She cries for what feels like an eternity. Quiet sobs that shake her whole body, as she covers her face with her hands and wonders why fate despises her so much. Despises them _all_ so much. This is the world that Solas thought was so much better than her own? This is the great, noble history of her people? These are there magnificent accomplishments? This is legacy of the supposed _goddess_ she once prayed to?

_How is this better, Solas? How was this worth saving?_

And yet…

And yet, _they_ are worth saving. Thenvunin and Uthvir are worth saving. But so were the people in her time. So many friends. So many good souls.

Did he send her back here just so she could helplessly watch everyone suffer all over again?

No.

 _I will kill them,_ she thinks. _I will kill every single evanuris. I will kill Andruil._

_I will kill Mythal._

However long it takes. However much she must grow. Her tears taper off, and grim resolve replaces it. It feels heavy in her chest, even as it seems to ease the sharp, visceral bite of her sorrow. She balls her hands into fists and lays in her crib, watches the soft glow of starry nightlights in her room, and repeats her new goal to herself over and over, until she finally falls asleep.


	19. TtA - Interrupted

When Lavellan is four, Andruil gets into a spat with her wife.

The end result of which sees Uthvir spending much more time at her beck and call, serving as a release for her tensions as she storms and glowers and bristles like a wet cat, furious and indignant over whatever disagreement the two of them have had. Uthvir has never cared much for times like these, but it is particularly bad now, when any infraction or reluctance on their part will immediately redirect Andruil’s ire onto another target. Ordinarily, they would consider that a blessing.

Ordinarily.

The second week into marital troubles, Andruil has them in her chambers, back bloodied and throat in hand when someone has the audacity to _knock._

The leader’s temper flares at the interruption, and Uthvir feels a moment of disoriented dread that it will somehow be their little daughter at the door, with that furious look on her face. There to demand her nanae back. Or, even worse, _Thenvunin,_ indulging in some suicidal and uncharacteristic impulse to interfere. They have no idea why they even think that. Thenvunin knows far better, and he minds Lavellan much too well for her to ever sneak away.

Even so, Uthvir musters themselves enough to risk moving, and edge out of the doorway’s line of sight.

“What?” Andruil barks sharply at whoever is on the other side.

Uthvir freezes, and for a half second they can feel their nerves all burning. Their blood trickling down their spine, and their heart pounding, and twisting, as they wait until they hear one of the servants’ voices, and then they close their eyes and swallow back the bile that had been gathering in their throat. They barely hear the words that follow. Just enough to catch Andruil’s outrage waning, and a mention of Ghilan’nain’s name; and then they tune back into the conversation long enough to gather that their lady’s wife has arrived at the palace, with a small entourage in tow, and a strange creature in a massive cage by the private eluvian in the lower reaches of the building.

Amends are being made, it seems.

What fantastic timing.

Andruil sends the messenger running, and then closes the door. She glances towards them, distracted from her sport, and then at the bloodied knife still in her hand. With a scowl she tosses it aside, and moves over towards her dressing room.

“Get out,” she instructs.

Uthvir considers their options.

Clearly, she has no intentions of healing their most obvious injuries. That would mean walking through the palace like this, which is… not ideal. Andruil’s chambers also let out onto a balcony, though, that is suspended over one of the gardens on the main floor. It will be painful to change shape like this, but if they can fly down, there is a window that leads to the residential wing; and then they could simply fly through to their chambers, lock themselves in the bath, and take the time to fix themselves to more presentable standards before attempting to reach the healers.

Workable, they decide.

They leave their armour behind – they can come back for that set when they are not bloodied and bruised – and make for the balcony. Andruil scarcely notes them as they step into the cool night air. Bloodstained footprints vanish off of the floor behind them, slowly, before they think to cast a spell to stem the flow. They have to reach behind themselves to do it, and the muscles of their shoulders scream in protest at the motion. They bite down, and know it will be worse when they shift.

It is.

Their muscles and bones strain, and their hawk form is bloodied, too, but at least there, the wings are intact. They land haphazardly on the balcony railing, stars shooting across their vision. At least a bird’s screech is less telling than an elf’s, as their beak parts and the sound tears out of them. But then they muster themselves, and drop into the garden, biting back the cry as their wings beat and their wounds protest. Dark branches rise up to greet them.

They take it in stages. Fly down from the balcony. Lurch onto one of the garden statues. Fly down from the statue, smack into a vine-strewn fountain. Rest a minute, then flap wings, ignore searing pain, and make it from the fountain to the open window.

The corridor is empty, which they are glad for, as they miss the landing on the windowsill and crash into the tiled floor instead. Spilling trails of blood every which-way. They have to stop. They are too dizzy to keep going, and it is too hard to hold onto this form, to keep their grip. _It is only pain,_ they tell themselves. But pain is still plenty distracting, and after a moment, in the quiet, nighttime corridor, they give up. They retain enough sense to bite back their scream as their form changes again, magic snapping like a wounded beast, blood spattering across the walls. A ragged curse escapes them anyway as they black out for half an instant.

Then they blink back the spots in their vision, and try to get to their feet.

A door opens.

Another curse flies out of them, because _of course._ Of course the fates would not see fit to just permit them to quietly make their way to some safe harbor, to repair themselves. Their gaze moves towards the direction of the sound, and their heart sinks further as it does, because they know what doorways are over there and…

…And when they see Thenvunin’s pale face, they are not certain if it is better or worse, that it is him.

There is a moment of still quiet.

Uthvir lets out a long breath, wounds torn open again; red blood dripping, _plink, plink, plink,_ into a growing puddle on the floor.

Thenvunin moves.

Part of them wants to flinch away, and part of them has it ingrained in them that they must not, and so they end up going rigid as he approaches, quietly. His gaze flits over them, taking in the bloodied marks at their back, and the raking cuts over their biceps and thighs. Then he reaches, and Uthvir is trapped by a disjointed, disconcerting set of impulses as he lifts them, carefully, around the front. Leaning their chest against his chest and working his arms under their legs, as he might carry their daughter; and the first coherent thought Uthvir manages is that it is a good pose for avoiding the wounds on their back.

“What happened?” Thenvunin asks, quietly.

“Interrupted,” Uthvir replies, going for wry and probably falling well short of the mark. “Ghilan’nain has come.”

Thenvunin only nods, and then carries them into their chambers. Uthvir stiffens, again, but of course, Lavellan is not there. The door to her room is shut tight. Thenvunin carries them to their private bath, his arms trembling a bit, but not from strain. The air around him is sharp, but the emotions are difficult to discern. Conflicting, perhaps. Or perhaps some of them are Uthvir’s own, muddying the waters. Soiling it all, like the blood spilling on Thenvunin’s ivory nightclothes.

They do not speak again until the bathroom door is closed, and Thenvunin is settling them face-down onto one of the padded benches. He moves a hand and whispers, and the bleeding stops again.

“I will get a healer,” he says, and moves to stand.

Uthvir catches his wrist.

They do not want a healer. They want to be _healed_ , certainly, but they do not want… they do not want anyone else touching them. Not tonight. They want solitude and quiet, and that is perhaps to be expected; but they are surprised to find that some part of them wants him, too. Just to… stay. Maybe not close, maybe not touching them, but nearby. With Lavellan a room over. They stare at the wrist they have grabbed. The clenched fist, that relaxes after an instant; the swell of surprise, and then the moment of hesitancy.

They make themselves let go.

Getting a healer. That is practical. Thenvunin knows who to seek out, from Andruil’s people. Who will be discreet, and simply do their duty, and make no issue of it.

They close their eyes.

“Apologies. Go, then,” they manage.

There is the shifting sound of fabric. A touch, unexpected; the backs of fingers brushing against their cheek.

“I will not be long,” he promises.


	20. TtA - Shape-Shifting

Lavellan hatches the plan when she’s still small, and watching her Papa stare wistfully up at the empty trees of one of the palace gardens. 

Uthvir has been trying and trying to get them a garden of their own, for Thenvunin. She knows. They haven’t said anything to him, but she’s seen the paperwork on their desk, and heard them talking to people about it when she’s with them, sometimes.

It’s a good idea. She wants to help. She really, _really_ wants to help.

She strikes gold with it when she’s seven, at last, and it’s like the air around her just goes _snap_  and everything gets windy and magical and _huge_. She shrinks down and down, far more than she thought she would. And she flaps her wings, and hops on her little birdie feet, and goes and looks at her reflection in one of the shinier parts of her bedroom floor.

She’s a bird, like she was trying. Hoping, she would be able to be.

But she doesn’t look like Old Screecher, who was the model she was aiming for.

She’s all… small, and puffy. A little ball of feathers, shimmering emerald and pale green, darker on the top of her and then lighter towards her… tummy. Because that’s definitely the sort of thing you would call a ‘tummy’, all tiny and round, barely enough to fill someone’s palm.

When her beak opens, a tiny ‘peep’ comes out of her.

She turns back in a hurry, and wonders why it is that the fates keep making her into small, vulnerable shapes. 

Her ‘success’ is strange enough that it takes her a while before she actually shows anyone. Not until one of those evenings when things are dark, and grim, and Thenvunin is despondent, and Uthvir is tense and distant and defensive. The air around them tense and the mood oppressive. She excuses herself to her room, to draw.

And then she transforms.

She flutters, unsteadily, taking a long moment to master her wings. She means to go out through her bedroom window, and zip back in through another one; to just be a bird that’s flown into the parlour, where her papa is sitting. But she doesn’t quite have the coordination for that. So she makes do with fluttering down the hallway, instead, tiny wings flapping until she makes her unsteady landing on the back of Thenvunin’s chair.

He looks just like a mess of gold hair from where she’s perched.

“Peep,” she goes.

He turns, all at once, eyes wide.They seem enormous. She hears his gasp, and for a moment, she’s worried she did this wrong. He raises a hand to his mouth, and just looks at her for a long while.

“Uthvir,” he breathes, then.

“I see her,” Uthvir says, quietly.

She looks towards her Nanae, and they still look tense. In point of fact, they look even _more_  tense than before, their brows furrowed, their pose shifting so that it looks like they might spring for her at a moment’s notice. She’s kind of worried about that, and lets out another uncertain ‘peep’ - somewhat involuntary - before Thenvunin reaches over to her.

With the utmost care, he coaxes her off of the chair and into his cupped hands.

“Little heart,” he breathes.

She blinks, and her tiny bird head tilts.

“How did you know it was me?” she wonders.

Her papa smiles at her.

“Animals do not feel the same as elves, my darling,” he tells her. But there’s a sort of breathless wonder to him, now, as well as worry. “How did you do this?”

“I practised. I do not know how long I can hold it for, though,” she admits.

Her wings flutter. 

Thenvunin curls a finger, carefully, and runs it over the feathers at her back.

“You are beautiful,” he tells her.

“I am very round, and small, and cannot fly well,” she says. Not even all that elegant-looking, in fact. She’s essentially a green puff ball.

Uthvir moves over, then, peering down at her still with that worried expression of theirs.

“That is an exceptionally vulnerable shape,” they agree.

“It is perfect,” Thenvunin insists. “I have never in my life seen a prettier bird.”

“It is… what it is,” Uthvir allows.

It’s a bird, she supposes. It’s a pretty bird, and in the end, that’s what she’d been trying for. There are other shapes, she knows. Other forms, and she can figure out how to find them, given time. But this one… she supposes she has this one because it _is_  useful. If vulnerable.

It’s a soft, pretty bird, to comfort her papa.

She moves a bit in his palm, rubbing her feathers against his hand. That feels nice, actually.

Thenvunin holds her closer to him, and dips down to kiss her head.

“Beautiful,” he repeats.

And that’s about when she changes back; losing her hold and rushing into her elven form again, a flurry of magic that doesn’t seem to surprised anyone as much as it does her. Thenvunin catches her easily, though, holding her in his lap and pressing exuberant kisses to the top of her head.

“My brilliant, talented, wonderful little girl,” he says.

But when he lets up a little, she feels Uthvir’s hand settle at her back.

She turns to look at her nanae.

“Do not let _anyone_  else see that shape,” they say. “Just myself and Papa. Understand?”

Meeting their gaze, she nods.


	21. TtA - Thenvunin's Perspective

When Thenvunin was much, much younger, his mother had once taken careful time to explain to him the importance of rank.

“Elves who contribute the most, rank the most highly,” she had told him. “Earn Mythal’s esteem, and prove yourself, and she will grant you favour. She already likes you, my dear. Be obedient to her commands, be thorough in seeing her will done, and wear your beauty so that it shall look resplendent beside hers. Prove yourself loyal and capable, and _do not_  waver. The lowest ranks are for those who barely have more to give than the blood in their veins, and that cannot be you. You are worth so much more. You must comport yourself as someone who knows that.”

Barely more than blood.

The healers had fixed him, had reshaped him, but he had known he was at a disadvantage. Where others had spent their childhoods learning various skills and flourishing under the instruction of tutors and mentors, or drifted as spirits in the Fade and learned to see the world through that lens, he had spent most of his own development hidden away, navigating the world with a body that it was not inclined to accommodate. And then, suddenly, his body fit but everything he had learned seemed not to, instead. He had to learn how to walk again, almost from scratch it felt like. How to move and orient himself and not be shocked by his own physicality. His twenty-fifth birthday came with his full healing, and his vallaslin, and in the wake of it, he had never felt more clumsy and off-kilter in his life.

If any elf, he feared, was barely worth more than their blood, than it was probably him. Whether before his healing or after; because at least before he had known how to _do_  things. After, he was a disoriented mess.

His father left. _He is fixed now but look at him, he still stumbles, he still weeps. What will ever become of him? How can he have a future, when even with two sturdy legs he cannot manage to walk? I love him, Mirena. How can I watch someone I love go through this? I cannot. All I wanted was a child. Not this heartache and disaster._

The words bit into him.

His father left, and Thenvunin woke every morning and found himself wondering when his mother would leave, too. When her love and her guilt would no longer be enough to keep her by his side. Which stumbling step would finally be the last straw? Which broken dish, which burdensome ignorance, which ungainly move or meltdown would prove too much for her, and finally force her to wash her hands of him?

And then, when would _Mythal’s_  patience run out?

But the axe he was waiting for did not fall. Day by day, he mastered himself. He learned to move and he found confidence in that movement, in being able to do things he could not before. Each new accomplishment seemed to pull him further and further from the person he used to be. From that disappointing child, and disappointing childhood. He grew strong and he grew steady, and yet…

At times, it seemed, that the closer he came to meeting the ideals of beauty and form, the more distinctly he could recognize all the ways in which he had still not met that goal. Shoulders too broad; hips too narrow. _Ungainly._  The lines that appeared around his mouth when he smiled were too deep; the angle of his brows when he frowned too severe. His laugh was unattractive, and he had blemishes; discoloured bits of skin from where the healers had reshaped him, that took years to fade.

He was beautiful.

But…

But, many elves were beautiful. And somehow, flaws that he would have scarcely noticed before seemed to consume the whole of his attention as he drew closer to his ideal appearance, but could never quite seem to _catch_  it. If he moved the wrong way he betrayed himself. Said the wrong thing, made the wrong noise. His lovers were always dissatisfied with him. No matter how beautiful he tried to be, there was always some disappointment.

Like they could _tell._

And it frightened him.

It frightened him, to think that he was one failure away from losing everything. The more he achieved, the more afraid he became. It was like the progression of his looks. Each height he reached just seemed to bring more awareness of its precariousness, of how far he still was from his goal. Rank is deserved. Those on the bottom rungs _deserved_  to be there, and… and he…

He stared at the long drop at his own feet, and disdained everyone beneath him. Because if he was the one doing the disdaining, then he had not fallen. Not yet. Then he still had favour. He still had his achievements. He was worth more than his blood, more than his broken-and-rebuilt body. He could not be dragged below, he thought, if he was always looking down.

 _All I wanted was a child. Not this heartache and disaster._

Sometimes, Thenvunin’s body does not feel like his own anymore. Sometimes that makes it easier. The he can tell himself it is not his own pain that he is feeling. That it is not his own self, doing these things; having these things done to him.That this is the body the healers made, and that… that it has never _really_  been his. 

He used to be afraid of that knowledge.

But some nights, now, he can almost convince himself it is a clever trick. _You think you are touching me, but you are not, not really. This is not me. This is not me._

_This is not me._

But then, there are times when it must be. When he knows it is. When the marks are gone and the hurt still lingers, and there is no where else for him to go. Nothing else for him to be. If this is not his body, then what is? He is no spirit, to fly freely through the Dreaming. He is Waking-born. Waking-born and weak and broken and barely worth more than his blood.

Andruil has an oft-overlooked gift for words.

They settle under Thenvunin’s skin, long after wounds his have been healed, and her touch has withdrawn. No matter how he tries to escape them. They chase into his thoughts. Batter down every shield he had ever built, thrash his defenses apart, as surely as she had torn through his physical defenses as well.

_You think you are strong? You are not strong. See how easily the bone breaks? Brittle, even after all that work that was done to fix you. No matter how you work these muscles, it is a lie, is it not? An illusion. As if the likes of you could ever be strong._

Mocking whispers. Phantom hands that close around his forearm, and… _snap._

He closes his eyes, and tries to take deep breaths.

_You think you are beautiful? What a notion. Look at the shape of you. You think no one can tell what you used to be? It is written all over you. The misshapen angle of your shoulders, the awkward musculature of your limbs. You know, I think one leg is still shorter than the other?_

It is not. He knows. It is not, he has measured them.

_Pity. Pity is what has gotten you this far. But I have very little of that, and none for you. In my keeping, you shall stay precisely where you belong. I will not grant you any spare ounce of esteem that you have not earned._

_Others may be fooled._

_You and I both know, though. What you really are._

_What you are really worth._

She is going to kill him, when Lavellan is grown.

Thenvunin knows it.

When Lavellan is grown, she is going to take his daughter, and do this to her, and use her against Uthvir. And then she will kill him. For the blood that he is worth.

His child will take her markings, and her father will be gone. Her life will be painful, if he cannot stop it. If he cannot change it. If he cannot give her something that will help.

“Good,” Thenvunin says, gently, as he helps her angle the tiny practice sword. “Very good. You are very strong, my darling.”

Lavellan looks at him, and he smiles and gestures for her to swing.

He watches her, and begs to every old forgotten god that he can give her something that will help.


	22. TtA - Beauty

Every morning, when Thenvunin wakes up, he looks at himself in the full-length mirror in his room.

This is one of the only parts of his daily routine, from before, that has not changed. He wakes up, and checks on his daughter. Brushes her hair and dresses her, and then gets ready for the day. Usually while Uthvir retrieves their breakfast.

His reflection has not changed that much.

He knows it cannot have. He still the same height, same build. His skin is healed, without a mark left. There are some shadows under his eyes. No more than might come from a week spent over-taxed, however, and he has done that before. 

Not since the war ended.

He looks, though, and he sees hair like straw. Clumsy, bulky frame. Misaligned brows and too-thin lips, top-heavy, brutish, ill-fitting and awkward. Where is the mask, he wonders? His fine things all stripped away, and it seems that Andruil was right. The illusion falters. Beauty far beyond his grasp. He is a puppet of meat and bone, remade from faulty materials. Like a sculpture that has never been right. That artists have tried and failed to rectify, and left only some imperfect, mangled attempt; passable enough for public presentation, but not really anything worth clamouring over.

Worth seeing.

His ugliness seeps through all the cracks, and no matter how he ties his hair, or wears his plain, itching clothing, nothing can hold it back.

Soft, tiny feet pad across the floor, and looks down to see Lavellan staring in the mirror with him.

She regards their reflections for a moment, and then tilts her head up at him.

“Papa, you beautiful,” she tells him.

Thenvunin thinks of another time. Another room, airier. His closets full of fine clothes. His daughter toddling towards him on less steady legs, crossing all the length of that wide, bright floor.

_Papa, doo look pre’y._

He wishes it could be enough, that she thinks so. His sweet baby.

“Not as beautiful as my little heart,” he tells her.

She reaches her arms up, and he obliges her, lifting her so she can press a kiss to his cheek.

“Beautiful,” she insists.

He sighs, and leans his forehead against her for a moment.

“Thank you, baby,” he says.


	23. TtA - Darellath

For the longest time, Darellath only knows of her brother through the presents he sends. She does not even know what he looks like, or whom he serves, or where he lives.

The first present she remembers getting is the one that comes on her sixth birthday. It is a dress. A blue dress, so soft that it feels almost like water, with a skirt that billows out like the petals of a blooming flower, and little white doves stitched in flight all across the top of it.

She stares at it, amazed. None of her clothes have _animals_ on them. Most of them are gold or orange or brown, too. Up until that birthday her favourite dress is a shiny yellow one, and yellow is her favourite colour. But in the moment she opens her brother’s gift, blue supplants it.

Her mama frets, though. She picks up the letter that came with it, and frowns a little.

“Is it too fine?” her papa asks, looking dubiously at the gift. Back then, Darellath is still too small to understand that certain materials, certain things, are too nice for their station. That if her brother sends her gifts that are _too_ precious and dear and lovely, she can keep them. But she cannot wear them, or use them, or be seen with them.

“…No,” her mother concludes. “It is just silk, it seems.”

“It is beautiful,” Darellath opines, suddenly afraid – from her parents’ strange behaviour – that it will be taken away.

Her mama smiles.

“It is. We shall have to write your brother a letter, and thank him. Do you want to go try it on?”

She nods, excited, and lets her mama take her back to her room. The dress is just the right size, and it becomes, by far, her favourite thing to wear. She wears it to lessons and she wears it while she plays. She wears it often enough that it wears right out, though to her eyes, it still looks beautiful, even when months have passed and the skirt doesn’t flutter right anymore, and the doves are starting to come out of their stitches. Her mama ends up throwing it out while she’s sleeping, and trying to distract her the next morning with a new yellow dress instead.

It works, for a little while. But when she learns the blue dress is gone, she cries and cries, until her papa comes and hefts her up onto his knee.

“Now,” he says. “That is enough of that. Bits of cloth and thread are not meant to last, and tears will not bring them back. Sometimes you must simply say ‘done is done’, and leave it be. There is no point at all in crying, my little heart. The world will not be kind, if it thinks you can be brought to your knees by such delicate things.”

His voice is gentle, but firm. And Darellath learns, as she gets older, that her father is very good at saying ‘done is done’. Even when it might not be.

When she is seven, her brother sends her a music box. The outside is simple but pretty. Painted white, with her name on the top. She is quite taken with having her name on it. But when she opens it up, the inside is all shining rainbows. A little crystal dancer turns and whirls as soft music plays, and casts pastel-coloured light across the walls of her room.

When she was six, the dress itself had been enthralling. But upon turning seven, as delighted as she is with the music box, she also finds her mind turning to the mystery of the gift-giver. She has always known she had a brother, she thinks. He has been sending her birthday presents and festival cards ever since she can remember. There is a blanket in the chest in her room that she thinks might have come from him – it looks different from all of the others – and a soft little doll that sits among a few others on her bed, dressed in a far finer gown than her sisters.

She asks her mama, first.

“What is my brother like?”

Her mama shrugs, a little.

“I am afraid I do not know much about him,” she says. “He is your father’s first child, and they do not get along very well.”

That is a scary thought. Darellath did not even know that it was possible for children to not get along with their parents. She tries to imagine being all grown up, and never seeing her own again, and the thought alone has her bursting into fits of tears. Her mother tuts and soothes her, and asks what is the matter. But she cannot explain it too well, and in the end she is only left with assurances that her brother is quite happy, and that his own mama is very close to him, and it is perfectly normal for grown-up elves to not see their parents all the time.

That night she goes to bed, listening to her music box, and cries herself to sleep thinking of being grown-up.

The next day, she tries asking her papa, instead.

“What is my brother like?” she wonders. She knows his name. _Thenvunin._ It sounds like a very big, fancy name to her.

Her papa pauses, and brushes a hand over her head. He looks at her, and chucks her chin, and does a lot of thinking before he answers.

“He is very delicate,” he finally tells her. “Like that music box he sent you. He needs looking after, to make certain he does not break. Even though he is all grown up, he is still fragile, and we must be very careful of him.”

He lets out a long sigh, then.

Darellath shifts on the balls of her feet, and frowns, and considers this.

“How come?” she wonders.

Her papa frowns.

“Because his mother was not made properly,” he says. “She came from a spirit, and the person who made her body did not do a good job. It was not her fault, or his. But when he was still inside of her, he did not grow right. And he has not been right ever since.”

Something about her father’s words do not sit right with her. But she cannot place what, except that her worries refuse to abate. He tells her to stop asking about her brother, though, and so she does. Instead she goes and looks at her music box, and imagines that the little dancer in it is what he must be like. All gleaming crystal and soft light, and delicate strands of magic.

She keeps the music box on the sturdiest shelf in her room, and puts her favourite stuffed tiger and her well-dressed doll up to guard it.

When she is ten years old, her parents take her on her first trip to Arlathan.

The city is big and beautiful and exciting, and everyone is so happy to see her. Her papa and mama are pleased to show her off, too, and they take her everywhere, to shops and city squares and gardens. She is as tired as she has ever been by the time the day is done, with her mouth filled with the taste of candy and apple tarts, and a flower that one of the spirits had given her held carefully in her hand.

That is the first time she meets him.

Her brother.

As they are walking back to where they are staying, with some of the workers near to June’s great, twisting tower, a man approaches them. Darellath had seen many beautiful people already that day, but something about this one makes her stop and gape a little. He is very tall, with long, pale hair, and a face like her father’s. Except fairer. He is dressed in a flowing, silvery outfit, with billowing purple sleeves, and clips shaped like flying sparrows pinned to his hair.

He stares at her, too. For a long moment, he does, and he looks like someone has just hurt him. The air around him feels like it does whenever she falls down unexpectedly.

He turns to her papa.

“Father,” he greets.

“…Thenvunin,” her papa replies.

Her brother. This strange, beautiful man is _her_ brother. She stares, amazed, as her mama catches her free hand and holds her in place. Not that she could move, really. She suddenly feels very small and dingy and plain, with her hair all falling out of its braid, and her grey dress stained with soil.

“You did not tell me you were going to be in the city,” Thenvunin says, folding his hands in front of himself.

“I did not think you would be here. If I had, I would have sent word,” her papa replies.

Darellath looks at the flower in her hand. It is a little wilted, from being carried around all day. But she wonders if he would like it? He has given her so many pretty gifts. She wants to give him one, too. She opens her mouth, but her mama tightens her grip on her. Warning. And when she looks up, she gets a gentle headshake in return.

 _Delicate,_ she thinks. Her brother is delicate, and must be handled with care. Darellath wonders if she already hurt him, somehow, just by looking at him before.

It would explain why he seems so sad.

“Where are you staying?” Thenvunin asks, folding his hands into his sleeves.

Her papa gestures, rather than speaking. When he does, her brother takes in a breath, and then lets it out again through his nose.

“I have quarters in Mythal’s estate. They are much more lavish, and quite suitable to children. You are welcome to stay there,” he says. Darellath feels a trill of wonderment. He lives _there?_ In that big, beautiful place, with all the gardens out front? They had passed by it in the morning. Some of the servants by the gates had even invited them in to rest their feet, and had complimented Darellath; but her parents had declined, and they had hurried along instead.

“It has been a long day, and Darellath is tired. We should not walk so far just to sleep in shimmering sheets,” her papa says.

Her brother stares at him for a moment. Then his gaze flits towards her, just for a second.

She does not know why, because it is not written in his emotions. But she thinks, maybe, that he wants to cry.

“As you like,” is all he says, though. “Perhaps we could meet tomorrow.”

“Perhaps,” her father says.

And then her brother is gone. Back into the gleaming city streets, that seem like the music box around her dancer, now. All rainbow colours and glowing lights, with their fragile crystal dancer in the midst of it. But still, she is tired, and disappointed, and she does not want him to go. She wants to give him her flower, and say ‘thank you’ for all his presents, and ask if he would like to come and live with them in Sulevinan. Or, if that would be too hard for him, if she could maybe come and visit him sometimes.

She would be very careful, she thinks. Like when she is in the workshop. She could hold her hands behind her back, and just look, and promise not to break him.

“Can I talk to my brother tomorrow?” she asks, twisting around and trying to see where he has gone.

“Perhaps,” her father says.

In the morning, when they leave early, she cries. And her mama frets, but her papa just sighs.

“Why are you crying?” he asks, sharply.

She cries harder.

“I want… I want t-to stay…”

“We cannot stay in Arlathan,” he says. “Alright? Do you understand? I used to be able to live here. Back when I served Mythal. I used to be able to stay in such places, but I had to give that up in order to have you. And I do not regret it, but we have no place here, now. If you want to stay here, you are going to have to make something of yourself. And that means no crying, and fussing, and having hysterics.”

“I… ‘m sorry…” she manages, but the words just make her feel worse. She wants to explain that she does not mean _forever._ She really likes Arlathan, but she likes Sulevinan, too. She thinks she would miss her bed and her room and all the people in that city if they left. What she really wants is to stay long enough to meet her brother, and maybe see Mythal’s estate on the inside. The words are hard to find, though.

It does not help that her parents get into an argument after they get home, either. Her mother is quiet for most of the way, except for trying to cheer her up. But when they get home, and she goes in her room, she hears the raised voices of an argument.

She opens her door a crack, and listens.

“-tell her that!” she hears her mother saying.

“Because! She is too much like him. She is too delicate. The world will not-”

“She is a _child._ Children cry! They get upset! The whole _point_ is that they are delicate, that is why they need to be looked after until they grow up.”

Oh no. Oh no, it is about _her._

It is _her_ fault.

“I am well aware of how children work, thank you! I am the one who has actually raised one before.”

“And that just turned out so beautifully, did it not? Are you so eager to see history repeat itself?”

“I will not raise another child that is destined for the chopping block! Do you understand? Thenvunin is going to die, Halasha. One day Mythal is going to snap her fingers and he will be little more than another power source to her. He has no other use, and no recourse except to rely upon her good graces, and the graces of leaders are thin for those with no great skill or intellect or resilience. He has none of those things. I will not let Darellath meet the same fate. She will not be like him, Halasha. She _cannot_ be like him. They will kill her.”

Darellath lets out a gasp. But it is not heard. Her parents’ argument slows, and moves off into their room.

She closes her own door again, and then goes and pulls down her music box.

Someone is going to kill her brother.

The thought makes her burst into tears again, for what feels like the thousandth time. But she cannot help it. She turns her father’s words over in her mind, again and again, and tries to figure them out. What chopping block? Why does Mythal want to kill her brother, and maybe her, too?

When her mama comes to check on her, she is curled up around the music box, inconsolable and scared.

And though her parents, afterwards, do much to reassure her that her papa was just mistaken about something, and that no one wants to kill her, or her brother, she finds herself worried over it for years afterwards. When she turns eleven and gets a beautifully bound book of poems from her brother, she lets out a sigh of relief. The book itself is wonderful, but that he sent it means he must still be alive.

And she thinks of that, often, when her birthday comes around. She sorts through her parcels and finds her brother’s gift, and though she always opens one from her parents first, she feels better once she has found it. Thenvunin sent her something. Thenvunin is alive; and the dancer in her music box still dances, amidst the shining rainbow interior, to a delicate tune.

When she is fifteen, she starts her anatomy lessons. She learns all about how bodies work, and things about how they are made, either from shards of spirits or by growing them inside of other bodies. It is a matter that makes her think of her brother again, and the things her father once told her of him, and the impression that has built up in her over the years. Of fragility.

She goes through her studies in the city library, and enlists the help of one of the clerks and a little Spirit of Knowledge to look up the matter of birth defects. But most of what she finds should not persist at all past adulthood. Most healers advocate against using magic on growing bodies, since ‘the balance of development is fragile and interference could exacerbate issues to the point of fatality or psychological trauma’, but this seems to operate within the understanding that once the body is finished growing, nearly everything can be repaired.

She does not quite see how Thenvunin’s mother could have been ‘built wrong’, or how her brother could still have persistent issues past childhood.

When she asks her father, though, he only changes the subject.

She thinks about writing her brother a letter herself. Her mama would help send it, she thinks. If she asked. But every time she sits down to try, her hand stalls over the paper. Where to even begin? She gets halfway through an attempt, but it all turns into effusive thanks over his many gifts, and strange-sounding compliments about the one time she glimpsed him, and in the end, she cannot manage it. What if it offended him? What if she hurt his feelings? How can she just write to someone she does not even properly know, and ask about his life?

In the end, she does nothing. The matter drifts away, lost in the day-to-day bustle of growing up.

She does not see her brother again until she is twenty-five.

Twenty-five, and all grown up, with prospects to start an apprenticeship with a local potter, and then decide if she wants to carry on with that or work with her mother instead. Or do something else, if she should discover an interest for it in the meantime. Her father is eager for her to choose the course of her life, to be decisive, and make something of herself. But she is still not sure who she wants to be, yet.

One of June’s own attendants performs her vallaslin ceremony. Her parents are there, of course, and many of her teachers and mentors, and neighbours in the city. And her brother comes, standing towards the back of the chamber. Like a shaft of starlight, dressed in silver and blue and gold. Easily the grandest figure in the whole room, even with June’s great servant performing the ceremony.

Afterwards, her parents hug her, and she is congratulated and complimented on the beauty of her markings. She is half afraid that she imagined her brother there, but the room quiets a bit when he approaches.

He hands her a long, heavy box. She cannot quite meet his gaze, as he inclines his head.

“Congratulations. You have done the family quite proud,” he tells her.

 _Say something!_ she thinks at herself, furiously. The parcel in her hands is wrapped in beautiful blue paper, and her tongue is tied into knots. She manages a ‘thank you’, but it comes out stilted and awkward, and she worries so much over say the right thing that by the time he has gone, she has not managed to say anything at all.

She frets over it, when he is gone, until at last her father drops a heavy hand on her shoulder. They are alone, with her mother abed, and she still has not opened the gift her brother gave her.

“I did not tell you this when you were younger, because I did not want to hurt you. But it is best to leave Thenvunin be,” her father says.

“Why?” she wonders.

He sighs.

“Because, he has no want of us. Nor need of us. Those gifts he sent you are barely more than trifles, by the standards of his rank. He is being polite. The least we can do is not strain his courtesy with some stray connection to a low-ranking family in another leader’s service,” her father explains, exuding sorrow, and badly disguised guilt.

“Did we _ever_ send him any thank-you letters?” she wonders.

“When you were small,” her father says.

“…Do you hate him?” she finally asks.

The man who recoils, as if that is a shocking question. She guesses it is. Most parents are supposed to love their children more than anything. But she knows how her father acts, when he does not like someone. How he avoids them, skirting around things. Making appointments he never meets, and pretending not to be home when he is. Lying and hiding and fabricating excuses.

“The only thing in this world I love as much as you is your brother,” he tells her.

It does not have the reassuring effect that he might have hoped.

In fact, it makes her nauseous, to think that he loves her brother and never speaks to him. For months after her ceremony, she finds herself worried that one day she will come home, and find that her father is no longer speaking to her. That he will start ignoring her when she walks into a room. They he will decide to go away, now that she is grown, and when he comes back, he will be pretending not to be there whenever she comes to call, and leaving any letters she writes unanswered, and otherwise making himself absent from her life.

She loves her father.

So she finds herself leaving the subject of her brother be. The more she thinks about it, the more frightening everything becomes. And. Well. Come to it, he _is_ lofty. She wonders what his mother must be like, to have produced someone so grand, because she does not think their shared heritage could be credited for it. She expects the gifts will stop, now that she is grown. The one he had handed her at her graduation turns out to be a sword, of all things.

A very pretty sword, with pearls in the hilt, and _Perseverance_ etched in small letters along the blade.

She has no talent for swordwork, but she keeps it on the wall in her room.

It ends up not being the last gift, though. Her brother sends her another on her twenty-sixth birthday; and she sends him back a card, though all she can manage to put on it is a simple ‘thank you’ and some small words of compliment to his gift; a set of pretty silver earrings. And then again, when she is twenty-seven, she gets another parcel from him. He sends her flowers at the start of the spring festival, just as he did when she was small, though he stops sending candy in winter.

Somehow, all her thoughts of finding out when his own birthday is fall away in the realizations that she could never send him gifts so fine as the ones he gives her. And her father’s words stick in her head, reminding her that, in the end, she is just another person. The warm cocoon of childhood wears off, and she learns what it is to be berated, and dismissed. To no longer walk into a room and capture everyone’s immediate attention. To have her efforts cast aside, her work thrown out, her skills bemoaned and her tasks turn unforgiving.

The world of adulthood is cold, and rank is everything.

And she… is nobody of importance.

Except that she has a brother, who sometimes sends her nice things. Things she keeps, when they seem precious; and things she trades and barters with, when times are hard and it seems more worthwhile to have an extra set of work clothes than a pair of pretty hair clips. She keeps on sending her insufficient little thank you cards, and things do not change much, in the end.

Not between them, anyway.

Her life is not a great saga, but it has its tragedies. When she is three hundred, she catches the eye of one of the city managers, and he courts her. She does not care for him, but the first time she sends his gift back, it is returned again with a note explaining that he cannot accept her refusal of his affections. He is far too determined to win her love.

Her father tells her it is a good opportunity. But the courtship gifts only seem to fill her stomach with rocks, and no love or warmth of feeling blooms in her heart. When a new family moves to the city, the and the manager suddenly redirects his affections towards one of them, she is only too happy to return all the gifts he sent her; though she still lies awake, some evenings, and hopes that whatever new target he has chosen likes him better than she did.

Some hundred years after that, she finds herself tipping head-over-heels for a bright-eyed young inventor. She initiates the courtship, that time, and it all goes well until her bright-eyed inventor dies in an accident in one of the building sites he was working at. She only knows because a colleague of his has the kindness to inform her, in light of their ‘situation’.

It is enough to have her vowing off of love. But there do end up being other attempts. Mostly by other people. She ends up being courted by one of June’s architects, who takes note of her during a delivery she makes for the workshop. His rank is much too high for her to even politely refuse, and he gives her few opening to even try.

It is not… terrible, in the end. But she is glad when he loses interest in her. There are a few more like that, over the years. Dalliances that she tolerates, that never really go anywhere, that sometimes leaving her crying on her mother’s shoulder. Her father bemoans her inability to make _use_ of such attentions, but she does not even know where to begin. She is a potter; she makes pots. She likes it. She likes working with the clay, and designing things, and painting. Either she will get good enough that Clever June will see her talents worthy of commendation, or she will not. The courtships are only a distraction from that, in the end. She does not want to be Manager of the Pottery Coalition, after all. Connections can only go so far.

She is past a thousand years old when she meets Courtesy.

The servant of Sylaise is a merchant, beautiful and fittingly considerate. He is thickly built, with a round face that dimples when he smiles, and no shortage of compliments to her craftsmanship. The strike up a good business arrangement; and ten years into it, she musters up her nerve, and asks Courtesy if she might not play her flute for him sometime.

“Only if… that is to say… only if you would like,” she ventures. “Please do not feel obligated to indulge me.”

Courtesy accepts quite readily, though, and with good grace. And so she plays for him. She works up what credit she has saved, and acquires a bouquet of lilies for him, and a shirt that matches the dark, dark blue of his eyes, and a pretty copper ring. And she makes him things, of course. Pots and paintings, and even some small sculptures, and decorative window tiles that meet Sylaise’s rigorous décor standards. So he can take them home, and hang them up there.

And Courtesy brings her fabrics and beads and a tiny little live lizard, that she adores for the entirety of its life. They exchange letters, because merchants travel often. And when they fall into one another’s arms, it is years and years after they have known one another. She does not mind it at all; though, when it comes to it, she thinks she likes dancing better. Even when it is with a partner she adores.

It is through Courtesy, and not her father, that she learns of her niece.

Her beloved sends her a letter describing the strange situation, mentioning that he thought of her in it because does she not have a brother with the name Thenvunin? And that this is the name of the high-ranking servant of Mythal who is raising a mysterious foundling with one of Andruil’s hunters.

Much of the letter goes over the bizarre circumstances in which the poor little baby was discovered, and subsequently appointed to the hunter. But as she reads it, all she can do is wonder what all has gone on in her brother’s life, over all these years. This man who still sends her gifts. Is this hunter his friend? His lover? He has taken on a _child._ Her niece!

She goes to her parents, eager to share the news, and halts when she sees the look on her father’s face.

“You _knew?”_ she asks him, aghast.

“Your brother wrote to me,” he admits.

“Well… why did you not say anything, in that case?” She is baffled. There is refraining from bothering someone, and then there is neglecting to tell your family when a new child has been added to it.

“What is there to say?” her father counters. “Your brother does not want us interfering with his daughter. I thought it would be better not to get anyone’s hopes up than to have to disappoint you.”

The comment deflates her, considerably.

But… of course. After all of these years, Thenvunin has always had his own life. Of course he would not want a group of veritable strangers meddling in it, no matter their relation. Elves are often covetous of their children, she knows. Each one is so rare and precious. He would likely see any effort on their part as an attempt to insert themselves in his daughter’s life, with no regard for his own preferences.

She swallows; her throat suddenly thick, and leaves again with only a nod.

Thenvunin can likely provide his child with anything she will ever need.

But still.

Darellath feels a sudden rush of determination.

She is not going to do less than she can do, anyway. The music box is still sitting on a shelf in her bedroom. The dancer still dances, every time she lifts open the lid. She goes home, and sits down at her desk, and writes a letter. And then re-writes it. Shortens it and lengthens it, until finally all she has a simple congratulations, and a request to know her niece’s birthday – or whatever approximate date has been decided upon by her parents.

She thinks about adding an open invitation for them to visit whenever they like, but then, travelling with a baby is not often advisable. It might sound presumptuous to even suggest it, she thinks.

So she leaves the letter as is, and sends it off.

The response she gets back is equally simplistic; a polite thanks for the congratulations, a name and birthdate for her niece (actually the day she was found), and a signature.

The paper smells like lilacs.

She puts it into the box where she keeps all the other little notes and cards and letters he has sent her – or many of them, anyway, some have been too simplistic to bother with – and then sets about doing mental calculations for how much extra work and savings she will have to do to earn the credit for a suitable gift.

The first present she sends is less a birthday gift than a ‘you exist!’ present. It is a simple, soft little round bunny that she stitches together herself, simple and safe for a baby’s curious little hands. When her niece is two, she sends a set of squishy little rings that make sounds like bells. Courtesy helps her choose them, and helps her find a good courier for them, too.

She is looking for her niece’s third birthday gift when it happens.

She is in her room, considering various stitching patterns, with the music box open on her desk. She likes to listen to it, when she thinks of her brother and his little family. She has been considering having it cleaned and packed up when Lavellan is a little bit older, and sending it as a gift. She will miss it, she thinks. But there is a sort of beautiful symmetry to the idea that she cannot quite get over.

And perhaps part of her hopes her brother will recognize it, and that she has kept it for so long; and perhaps he will want her to meet his family, then. His daughter, and his partner.

There is a tremendous _crack._

Darellath jumps so high she nearly falls out of her chair, and drops the sewing patterns as she stares in dismay.

The hinges on the top of the music box must have given up, after all these years. They had seemed fine enough when she opened it; but the lid has fully and suddenly collapsed. She carefully lifts it up again, and her heart drops straight to her feet. The beautiful rainbow interior is all scratched, now, and the tiny dancer has been broken; smashed against its stand before it could retract in time. The music has stopped, and the beautiful little tableau looks grim and tragic now.

She carefully wraps up all of the pieces, and takes them to a few workshops where she knows people who owe her favours. But the prognosis is bleak, and they only confirm what she suspects; it cannot be repaired.

“I think I could salvage the dancer, if you like,” one of her colleagues offers, looking at the wreck. “It would not be quite the same, I would have to rebuild parts of him, but you could still have him as a memento.”

She accepts the offer, but still bemoans the loss to Courtesy later.

“Well, I have some good news that might cheer you up,” Courtesy tells her.

“Oh?” she wonders.

“Mmhmm. Word has it that your brother has been traded to Andruil,” he says. “His whole little family will be staying together. That should make things much easier for him. And perhaps his mood will improve enough to allow for some visitors.”

She blinks, surprised. Her brother among the hunters is… not something she can picture. Though, truth be told, she has trouble picturing him anywhere but Arlathan; shining amidst the jewels of the great city.

“I wonder if he requested that,” she muses, as Courtesy loops his arm through hers.

“I do not know. But if you and I ever have a child, I hope we can be so lucky. Whether I come and serve June or you come and serve Sylaise, I would be happy to see more of you,” he replies.

She lets out a laugh.

“If I win any babes in a tournament, I suppose we shall find out,” she muses.

It is good news, she supposes. For her brother. Maybe it is only the thought that he is carrying on, living this vast and complex life of his that leaves her feeling disquieted. Or maybe it is just that the music box, for so long, was what she associated with him. That might explain the dream she has that night, of her brother dancing and dancing, only to have the roof fall in on him.

She wakes, and mulls the matter over for a moment before going to her desk to try and write another letter.

_Dear brother,_

_Word has reached me of your transfer to the service of Mighty Andruil. I wish to express my happiness that your family shall be all together under one banner now. It has always seemed to put a great gulf between us, that you served Mythal while Father and I belong to June. I hope this change in your life is a good one, and brings you much joy._

_If you ever need anything, I know we have not been close. But I am still your sister, and I hold only a great and abiding fondness for you. So I would hope you might come to me with any troubles you face._

_Yours,_

_Darellath_

She reads it over, and almost changes it. Perhaps it is silly, to even suggest he might be facing troubles. To let some bit of superstition over a music box, some disappointment over an item that, really, should have probably broken centuries ago, make her too presumptuous.

But in the end she bites down on her doubts, and sends it as-is. If he takes offense at it, or thinks it is ridiculous, then she can apologize, she decides. She is not above making apologies. She has had to make them to less worthy sorts, for less compelling reasons.

Even so, when the letter comes back unopened, she does not know what to make of it at first.

The courier does not offer her any insight to the matter. She tells Courtesy – writes another letter over her letter, in fact, because by then he is back in Arlathan – and he suggests another messenger to her. And this one also brings back her letter, but at least offers an explanation for it.

“Your brother has lost favour with Mighty Andruil, and has been stripped of rank. He is not permitted correspondence, either,” they tell her, with obvious condolences.

She quietly takes the letter back, and in her mind’s eye she sees that beautiful dancer, smashed into the workings of her music box.

“Thank you for the effort,” she says, and the messenger nods in acknowledgement.

“I have a few friends among the hunters. If you want, I can keep an ear out, and if his status changes, let you know,” they offer.

“That would be very kind. Do you happen to know what he did to earn disfavour?” she wonders.

“Word has it that he displeased the lady in bed,” the messenger admits.

Her gut clenches.

She thinks of managers and architects and all the high-ranking elves who ever made her stomach churn because she could not turn from their advances, and this is worse, she knows. Much worse. Her gleaming brother is so beautiful; of course, even at his lofty height, someone higher would eventually seek him.

“Thank you,” she repeats, again.

 _Delicate. Fragile. Thenvunin is going to die._ Her father has often been wrong, she knows. About a great many things.

She finds herself hoping, dearly, that he is wrong about her brother’s state, too. And then she wonders, in hoping that, how much he has been wrong about that she has never even known. She thinks about that night in Arlathan, when she was ten, and her brother invited them to Mythal’s palace. And of letters that her father hadn’t spoken of. How many more were there, besides the announcement of her niece’s adoption?

How much had she missed?

When she reclaims the repaired dancer from her friend, she settles it back onto the shelf in her room.

“Survive,” she tells it.

Then she goes to write another letter to her brother, very different in tone; and hopes it is not too late, and that he will someday have the chance to read it.


	24. TtA - Andruil Must Die

Lavellan starts planning Andruil’s death when she’s still figuring out how to say ‘Thenvunin’ without any unwelcome D’s making their way into the mess. It becomes a sort of part of her daily routine. Wake up, contemplate ways to kill Andruil. See Thenvunin, smile, get dressed, go to breakfast. Contemplate ways to kill Andruil.

Poison? Complicated. Detectable. That’s the sort of assassination attempt that leaders expect, so probably she would need to find a pretty obscure poison, and she doesn’t quite have access to the resources for that. Any kind of poison that gets used by the hunters is going to be one which Andruil is familiar with.

Scratch poison, for now.

Kiss Uthvir goodbye as they go to join the hunting parties and see to their duties. Go back to the rooms with Thenvunin, play games, read books, learn lessons. Let Thenvunin dress her up however he wants, and take her to go see the halla. Try not to act like an actual excitable toddler over them. Fail miserably.

Watch one of the hunters approach Thenvunin. Scowl. Kick up a fuss if anyone tries to coax her away from him. Make noise until Uthvir shows up, or until they don’t, if they’re trapped with Andruil. Probably get taken away from Thenvunin, in that case.

Cry, and think _a lot_ about murdering Andruil.

Wait for Thenvunin to come back. Pretend not to notice if he’s shaking when he does. Let him kiss her and hold her and take her to their rooms, and lock the door and just sit with her awhile. Pat his cheeks and try to be comforting, until Uthvir finally _does_ come back.

Let them take her without a fuss so Thenvunin can vanish into their private bath. Think about killing Andruil, as she rests her cheek on Uthvir’s shoulder.

Surprise attack? Could she just… stab her, if she got close enough? Most wounds would probably be healed if they weren’t immediately fatal. She’d only get one chance, and she would have to be certain it would work, and make it count. If she fails, and gets caught, Uthvir and Thenvunin will be punished for it.

She can’t let that happen.

Uthvir drops a kiss onto the top of her head, and leaves her to her thoughts for a moment as they gently knock on the bathroom door. And then slip in, at Thenvunin’s answer, until they finally re-emerge and scoop her up for Hunting Lessons.

Go to the practice fields, and the gardens, and watch the hunters at their tasks. Let Uthvir show her pelts and tools and tracks, set her off chasing butterflies and searching for little rocks to bring back to them. It’s silly, maybe, but it makes them smile, and that’s worth something.

Go back inside. Get Thenvunin. Head off for the evening meal. If Andruil’s not in attendance, take their food back to their chambers and eat together in the sitting room, trying to ease the conversation between Uthvir and Thenvunin.

If Andruil is there, eat in the hall, and think about ways to kill her. Protest if she calls for Uthvir. Clutch at them when they go. Fuss, until either Andruil relinquishes them, or doesn’t.

Wish she could kill with a look when Uthvir stays at her side, and Thenvunin carries her from the hall, and she spends the night sleeping tucked up against his chest, wondering what she’s doing to Uthvir. Hoping it’s not as bad as what she must have done to Thenvunin.

Wishing she was big enough and strong enough to just go and fight her.

Fall asleep, and repeat the process the next day. And the next, as bit by bit, she does get bigger. Bit by bit, she does get stronger. She runs through the palace, swift and quiet, and learns the layout of it. She investigates with Thenvunin, holding his hand and pulling him along, stopping if he gets nervous or uncomfortable. She learns to spot the elves who will give them trouble quickly. Learns what lines they will and will not cross, and how to deter them, and knows the names and faces of all those who cause her papa to cringe or flinch or go unnervingly blank in the eyes.

She makes Uthvir show her all the sorts of interesting, hidden spaces that most children would be fascinated by. Tunnels and turns, secret doors and rooms. She makes mental maps of the palace, and of Andruil’s holdings in Arlathan, too. She lets the hunters show her things. Lets them dote, in their way. But she’s not a child, not really, and she doesn’t play-act for them unless it serves her. To them, she is cold and distant, disappointingly bereft of the playful impulses and enthusiasm they expect.

When she is six, Uthvir does something to upset Andruil. She never finds out what. But the woman calls to Thenvunin, who is forced to leave her with one of the friendlier hunters as he answers, because Uthvir is already sitting at her side and Andruil does not like her at the high table.

She watches as Andruil curtly orders Thenvunin to her chambers. As Uthvir tries, desperately, to redirect her ire, to offer her something that will keep her from following him there. Lavellan stares, with a growing sense of dread. Her grip is white-knuckled on her fork.

“What is the matter, little one?” the hunter who is watching her asks, frowning a bit in concern.

“I want Papa,” she says, and a bolt of panic shoots through her as Andruil stands up. “I want Papa! Right now!”

“Shh, your papa is busy attending our lady,” the hunter says, gaze flicking nervously to the high table. But Lavellan will not be deterred. She is the only person in this room whom Andruil cannot kill on a whim. Not without grave repercussions.

She stands up, and rushes down the hall. Slips through one of the secret passages Uthvir had shown her, and down through the servants’ hall, and then cuts through the kitchens and another serving passage. behind a massive hunting mural. She runs, evading the hunter who dashes after her, and she makes it to the corridor that leads up to Andruil’s chambers.

Then she waits, her chest heaving. Her mind aflame with thoughts of killing the huntress. She has a little knife that Uthvir gave her. One blow. One blow, could she do it in one blow? If she had the opening?

Could she take it?

Footsteps resound down the hall. Shadows flicker.

A statue of a hawk by the chamber doors turns, and before she can blink a pair of shadowy arms close around her and snatch her up, carrying her away from the hall. She struggles, kicking too-weak legs, her fingers scrambling over the armoured grip she’s in until she realizes it’s a familiar one.

Uthvir shuts the passageway behind them. A dim, amber light scatters over them in the narrow little path, as they grip her close.

“What are you doing?!” they demand, holding her so tight that she cannot actually look at them. So easily restraining her.

Her heart sinks into her stomach, and her eyes sting at her helplessness.

If she cannot even break Uthvir’s grip, can she really take Andruil by surprise?

“I will kill her,” she finds herself saying, nevertheless. “I will kill her. She does this to you and she is going to do it to Papa, again, and I cannot let her. I hate her. I hate them all, every last one of them, they are _monsters!_ They will not stop until they destroy everything that is good in this world. I want to kill them. I want to _kill them._ It is all their fault!”

She struggles and rants, her blood pounding in her ears, as Uthvir holds her. No matter how her little legs crash against them, or her hands push at them.

“Let me go! Let me kill her!” she begs.

They do not let her go.

She fights and struggles until her small, useless body starts to give out on her. Until her legs get too tired to keep kicking. Until her fists get too weary to keep swinging. Her lungs burn and she realizes she has been sobbing, and screaming, and cursing. Her jaw aches from it. Her face is a mess of tears, that keep coming as curses peter off into wet hiccups, and despair blankets her completely.

Only then does Uthvir shift their grip on her, moving so that they are cradling her, and settling so that their back is against the wall. They slide down it, and rest her in their lap as she buries her face against their shoulder.

Then her nanae lets out a long, long breath.

“Who told you?” they ask, quietly.

“No one,” she admits. “I have _eyes_ and _ears_ , though. Andruil is not as subtle as she thinks. Neither are the hunters who come and ask Papa to _dance.”_

Uthvir is quiet, for a moment. They rest their hand on her head, and when she can finally look at them, their expression is blank and far-away.

“You cannot kill Andruil, my baby,” they finally say. “She is not prey.”

“Anyone is prey if you hunt them, Nanae,” she replies.

They let out a curse, and shake their head.

“You are tiny, and young, and weak,” they say, bluntly. “She could kill you in a heartbeat. But more likely, she would just punish those you care about. If you cannot even evade me, how do you suppose you can defeat her? Do you think people let her do these things because they enjoy them? No. But she is strong. She is one of the strongest. And you, my little baby, are not.”

“I am not a little baby,” she says, and her mind is mostly circling around the notion of just telling Uthvir what she is. But as it comes out of her tear-wracked lips in her six-year-old voice, she can admit, the protest doesn’t sound… terribly mature.

Uthvir looks down at her.

“You are, still,” they say. “One day you will not be. But until you are, you must obey Andruil. You must not attack her. If you do, she will kill your papa. She will kill him without a second thought, and there will be no way for either of us to protect him. Do you understand?”

She goes cold. Because she knows, that’s true enough. She knew the risks. It’s why she’s been waiting, why she knows she only has one chance, and she must succeed at it.

“What if she kills him tonight?” she asks, though. Because she remembers. She remembers those first few days, waiting. Wondering. Seeing him afterwards, riddled with freshly-healed wounds, alive but broken.

“She will not. Your Papa is very strong. He has a bright soul, just like you. And he knows that you will be there for him, when Andruil is done with him. That is sometimes the greatest source of strength. Knowing someone will be there, after. Even if they could not protect you, in the end. They will always still come for you, after.”

Uthvir’s voice shakes. Their arms tremble.

She looks up, as they turn their face, and something wet drops onto her cheeks. Their eyes squeeze shut and their hold on her tightens again, as they sit in the hall, just a wall away from whatever Andruil is doing to Thenvunin.

Fresh tears spill down her own cheeks.

“I am sorry, Nanae,” she says. 

“So am I,” they tell her. “I would kill her for you. I would kill her for him, too. I would.”

She closes her eyes, at that, and hugs them tight as they cry.

She thinks about killing Andruil.

But that time, she lets them take her back to her chambers, as she lets out exhausted breaths and sobs. They tuck her into bed, and kiss her forehead, and promise her it will be alright.

And in the early hours of the morning she wakes to the sound of the main door opening. She slips out of her bed, and opens her door a crack to peer through and see Uthvir taking Thenvunin to his room. Her nanae’s hand is ungloved and soft-nailed at her papa’s back, gentle and careful, but Thenvunin is moving under his own power. Even if it is a slow, slumped gait.

She shuts her door again, quietly, and leans against it. Buries her face in her hands, and weeps.

The next morning Thenvunin is in bed. She climbs in with him and reads to him, a story about an ancient priest who gets lost and finds himself bargaining with fickle spirits to try and chart a way home, and rescues a bunch of villagers and helps a sleeping hero and manages to fall in love along the way. She tries braiding his hair but he flinches at her fingers in it, so she ‘changes her mind’ and reads him more of the book instead.

Uthvir brings them lunch, but doesn’t eat with them. They go off to ‘tend to duties’, and she worries after them. Thenvunin misconstrues her change in mood and offers to let her go play outside, but she declines to leave him, and they picnic together until she goes back to the book.

In his continuing adventures, the priest comes across a hungry beast, that wants to make a meal of him. As Lavellan reads, the priest tricks the beast into eating things that are not food, until it becomes so heavy with them that it cannot move.

She thinks of Andruil, a black-scaled beast with a stomach full of gold, and imagines leaving her at the bottom of a great pit to starve to death.

Then she glances at Thenvunin, and his distant expression, and shifts the book some.

“I want to skip ahead to when he gets home,” she decides.

Her papa looks at her, and smiles a bit.

“Alright,” he agrees. “I hope it ends well.”

As it happens, that story does. And she thinks of it, and of killing Andruil, by the time night falls on that day. It sticks in her head, the priest and the starving monster. Sticks and sticks, as she grows and grows, and her thoughts are filled with poison and knives and the golden glint of the evanuris’ gaze. The black pupils, deep and _wrong_ where they catch the firelight in the dining hall.

Years later, she thinks of it while Andruil speaks of her _hungers_ , and bids Uthvir go and wait in her chambers. And drinks and laughs, as Thenvunin recovers again from her in his room, and Lavellan gathers up a plate of dinner to take to him.

“You must look after your papa,” Uthvir tells her, firmly, before they go.

“I will,” she promises.

She takes Thenvunin his dinner, and tells him she is going to practice painting in Uthvir’s room, where the light is different. Then she moves through the tunnels and passageways she knows like the back of her hand, and goes, and once again waits outside of the evanuris’ door.

When Andruil arrives, she looks amused.

“Did you need something, little pet?” she asks.

“Yes, my lady,” she says. “If it please you, normally my nanae gives me a goodnight hug. Or my papa does. But Papa is still recovering and is sore, and Nanae must attend their duties. So I wondered, if you might not hug me instead?”

Andruil raises an eyebrow. But she does not seem worried. She does not seem afraid.

She comes close.

After it is done, the door to her chambers flies open.

Uthvir stares at the body for a very long time. So does Lavellan, too. Until it almost seems funny. Until it seems so fitting. She has killed Andruil, and it makes her want to laugh. Laugh with relief and fear and with the whole scenario, because she is lost in the past, because she is a child-but-not, because she has killed a god-but-not. A dragon who was a woman who was a monster. Because she loves people who died before she was born.

Because this world is wretched, and always was, and always will be.

She does not realize she is hysterical until she blinks and finds that she is in Uthvir’s arms, wrapped up in a blanket, with blood still crusted under her fingernails as they carry her through one of the tunnels. Thenvunin silent beside them, until she looks at him, and he manages a wavering smile.

“Did I kill Andruil?” she asks.

“So it would seem,” he tells her, hoarsely.

She tilts her head, and looks at Uthvir; who is silent and steady but holding her tight.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“We are going to have to disappear,” Uthvir says. “For now.”

She will, they supposes. So that the peacekeepers do not take Uthvir and Thenvunin away to be executed. So that she will not be imprisoned until she is grown enough for them to feel alright in executing her, too. She should have been more subtle, she supposes. Hidden it better.

“If they come after us, I will kill the others, too,” she promises.

Thenvunin makes a choked sound.

Uthvir leans down, and kisses her forehead.

“Hopefully, we will not need to test the fullness of your skill on that,” they say.

The tunnel they are walking through leads out into the wilds of the hunting grounds. Under the starry expanse of a crowded night sky. She thinks of that old story, and the priest walking out of the monster’s lair. It would have been better, she thinks, to have starved Andruil to death. But the world is not a fair or just place by its nature, and come to it, it’s enough that the woman is dead.

Though…

“Are you afraid of me now?” she asks her parents, because she knows they’re afraid.

They stop.

Uthvir carefully sets her back on her feet, and Thenvunin reaches over and pulls her swiftly into his arms, instead.

“Of course not,” he says.

Her nanae meets her gaze for a moment.

And then they smile.


	25. TtA - On the Run

Thenvunin does not hesitate in holding her, afterwards.

No matter how frightening or strange and inexplicable or bloody her vengeance upon Andruil may have been, he never fears her. He fears _for_  her. 

Children are not supposed to see violence, they are not supposed to realize it if their parents are suffering, they are not supposed to have to kill people to protect their parents. Parents are the protectors. Thenvunin knows that Andruil was reared in a tumultuous time, and there are days when he wonders if that might not have been what caused her to become what she was. 

Still. He cannot imagine his daughter ever becoming that. Ever going so far. Not even when she is covered in blood she has spilled, that he _knows_  she has spilled. But he fears for her, and he tries to make it up to her, afterwards. Drawing her into hugs and kisses, whispering affection, holding her close and letting her know. She is loved. No matter what, she is loved, and Thenvunin will take it from here. Will look after her, as he is supposed to.

They make their way down unfamiliar paths, through strange territories, going by foot over wild and dangerous terrain. Lavellan is not upset by it. She tips her head back to drink in the sunlight, and the rain, and never complains about walking too much, or missing her soft bed or nice clothes, or all the things they left behind in Andruil’s palace.

Uthvir keeps her close. Watchful. They leave her with Thenvunin only when they hunt and forage, to make certain she still has regular meals. Lavellan offers to go, too, but does not press the issue when she is denied. She has seen enough blood. She has done enough killing. She sits and lets Thenvunin fret over her hair, and braids his own to keep it out of his face.

At night, they all sleep in the lone tent Uthvir had managed to snatch up before their flight. Lavellan between them, still so small in his arms, sleeping like a stone until she invariably wakes and goes rigid, and the telling alarm of disquiet rest spikes in the air.

“It is alright,” Thenvunin tells her, when that happens. “It is alright, little heart, we are here. We have you.”

“Is Andruil dead?” she asks, sometimes.

“Andruil is dead,” Uthvir will say. Solid and steady, as if it is a reality they must affirm for themselves, as well.

Thenvunin still cannot quite manage to say the words aloud.

Still cannot quite believe it. That the monster is gone. That someone so tiny, so vulnerable, somehow managed to be her undoing. But he cannot doubt it, either. Uthvir had shown him the body, had carried Lavellan in their arms, dragging them all through passageways and corridors as his head spun, and he does not believe Uthvir would place the blame for this at their daughter’s feet if it were not the truth. 

Their hunter is a far better liar than that, if need be.

“We are safe,” is what Thenvunin says again, and that will settle her. Sometimes, it will make her cry, and apologize. Broken little sobs that wrench at him, as her sorrow spills from her lips. He thinks she is apologizing for killing Andruil, at first.

“No,” she tells him.

“Then what are you sorry for?” he wonders.

“I am sorry I could not do it sooner,” she says.

Uthvir will often go quiet, at that.

Uthvir, who suffered Andruil the longest. Who survived centuries of this, alone, and sometimes Thenvunin can scarcely imagine how.

“It is enough that you managed it at all,” is what Uthvir tells her, though. Then they lean in, and press a kiss to her cheek. Rub her back, until she drifts off again, to the quiet sounds of the night wilds encompassing them.

Finally, one night, Thenvunin asks. Quietly, as she sleeps against him.

“How did she do it?”

Uthvir is silent for a long while. Long enough that he wonders if they are pretending to be asleep. But then they shift, and let out a long breath.

“I do not know,” they say. “Come to it, I almost do not care. She was flesh and blood, in the end. Some part of me had forgotten. If Lavellan did it, then I could have done it, too. But I never did. I should have done it that first night, before she ever touched you.”

Something twists inside of Thenvunin. Raw and crackling, and he thinks of a time when he had been in the woman’s chambers himself, lying right next to a knife. Right next to one. Her jugular had been well within his reach. A flash of an instant, and…

But she was a legend. Andruil. The huntress. Daughter of Mythal. She would have found a way, he thought. A way to stop him. To survive. To punish him, and Uthvir, and Lavellan, just for his audacity.

Maybe that was how, in the end.

Lavellan had never believed Andruil was special. In her childish way, she had always just seen a woman who made her parents sad. Simple. Straight-forward. She saw the hunters fight and kill, heard them speak of how one was meant to handle their enemies, and she did not hesitate, in the end. Too angry, too hurt, too fierce to relent to the suppositions of what _should_  have been impossible for her.

“I wish I had seen it, sooner. What she was doing to you,” Thenvunin whispers. “I wish I could have saved you, too. The very day you brought Lavellan to me. I should have realized why you would pick me, of all possibilities.”

Uthvir turns their head towards him. There is only enough light to see the edges of their features, but the air is warm, and calmer than it has been for days.

Slowly, they reach over, and brush a strand of hair away from  his temple.

“Past is past,” they decide. “She is dead now, anyway. I will never let anyone touch you like that again. I swear it.”

Thenvunin swallows.

“I will protect you, too,” he promises.

And where they are going, that may not be an idle vow.

He lets out a breath, and holds his daughter closer. And then, after a moment’s consideration, he shifts one of his arms further outwards. Gingerly resting his hand on Uthvir’s hip, until they make no move to dissuade him. Then he settles the touch fully onto them, and lets himself drift into dreams.

Safe, at last.

Safe, for now.


End file.
